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THE

ALIFORNIAN

A WESTERN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

\'* l"

JANUARY— JUNE, 1881

VOLUME III.

SAN FRANCISCO:

THE CALIFORNIA PUBLISHING COMPANY,

No. 202 SANSOME STREET, CORNER PINE.

CONTENTS.

Agra Bazaar, An Jno. H. Gilmour 366

American Imitation of England, The. A Colloquy Octave Thanet. 5

American Traveler, An John C. Barrows 399

Art and Artists 89, 186, 281, 572

Barbary Coast City, A A. M. Morce 468

Best Use of Wealth, The E. X. Sill. . . .'. 43

Blighted Constance Maude Neville 356

Books Received 90, 189, 285, 375, 476, 574

California under the Friars John S. Hittell 432

Child's Journey through Arizona and New Mexico, A. . .Kate Heath 14

China Sea Typhoon, A Wm. Lawrence Merry 127

Clouded Summer, A Lydia E. Houghton 463

Correspondence 383

Day on a Guano Island, A Emily S. Loud 113

Decay of Earnestness, The Josiah Royce 18

Division of the State, The J. P. Widney 124

Doubting and Working J. Royce 229

Drama and Stage 90, 188, 282, 380, 476, 571

Dream-plant of India, The Jno. H. Gilmour. 535

Earl of Beaconsfield and his Work, The Robt. J. Creighton 545

Endowment of Scientific Research, The George Davidson 293

Festival of Childhood, The Marie Howland 61

Forgotten Poet, A William D. Armes 180

'49 and '50 John Vance Cheney 197, 328, 401, 505

Gardens of the Sea-shore, The C. L. Anderson 77

George Eliot as a Religious Teacher Josiah Royce 300

George Eliot's Later Work Milicent Washburn Shinn 501

Good-for- Naught Helen Wilmans 343, 421, 523

Homely Heroine, A Evelyn M. Ludlum 52

Hydraulic Mining. — Need of State Action upon Rivers. . .John H. Durst 9

Interoceanic Communication Wm. Lawrence Merry 213

In the Skyland Omnibus Mary H. Field 246

Irish Question Practically Considered, The R. E. Desmond 101

Is the Jury System a Failure? E. W. McGraw 412

Literary Shrine, A Nathan W. Moore 242

Literature of Utopia, The M. G. Upton .\, 530

Lucretia Mott Ellen C. Sargent 354

Monroe Doctrine and the Isthmian Canal, The John C. Hall 389

Mr. Hiram McManus Warren Cheney 564

Mr. Wallace's "Island Life" Joseph Le Conte 485

CONTENTS.

New California, A Alexander Del Mar 207

New Poet, A Abner D. Cartwright 70

Note Book 86, 183, 277, 373, 570

Old Californians Joaquin Miller. 48

"Old China" Mellie A. Hopkins 66

Old Colleges and Young Martin Kellogg. 488

Old Hunks's Christmas Present Chas. H. Phelps 82

Olive Tree, The John. I. Bleasdale 256

One Stormy Night Julia H. S. Bugeia 237

Outcroppings 93. r93- 287. 38l« 479. 5?8

Parish Primaries, The Sam Davis 449

People I would Like to Endow Martin Kellogg. ... 168

Pescadero Pebble, A ! Isabel Hammell Raymond 131

Pessimistic Pestilence John S. Hittell 363

Poetry of Theophile Gautier, The •. Edgar Fawcett 397

Present House of Stuart, The Edward Kirkpatrick 269

Reminiscences of the Telegraph on the Pacific Coast. . .James Gamble 321

Republic of Andorra, The Edward Kirkpatrick 108

Rival Cities, The William Sloane Kennedy 275

Science and Industry 87, 184, 279, 374, 471

Seeking Shadows J. W. Gaily 311

Shall we have Free High Schools?. E. jR. Sill 172

Six Weeks at Ilkley Mary R. Higham 158

Southern California Charles H. Shinn . . 446

State vs. the Christian University, The C. C. Stratton 457

Strange Confession, A W. C. Morrow 25, 117, 221

Study of Walt Whitman , A William Sloane Kennedy 149

Swinburne on Art and Life Alfred A. Wheeler 129

Taxation in California C. T. Hopkins 139

Teachers at Farwell, The Milicent Washburn Shinn 434

Toby '. Josephine Clifford. 491

Twelve Days on a Mexican Highway D. S. Richardson 440

Uncle Sam and the Western Farmer. Leigh Mann 250

Up the Moselle and around Metz W. W. Crane, Jr 36

Venus Victrix Mary W. Glascock 539

Verse-painter of Still Life, A Nathan Newmark .... 326

View from Monte Diablo, The A. R. Whitehall. 369

What is a University? E. R. Sill 452

Wiring a Continent James Gamble 556

POETRY.

Alvarado of Madrid Yda Addis 167

Californian Cradle Song Chas. H. Phelps 148

Coronation Henrietta R. Eliot 431

Defrauded Carlotta Perry 544

Divided .S. E. Anderson 501

Dream of Death, A William Sloane Kennedy 342

Eleanore Julia H. S. Bugeia 563

Four German Songs Milicent Washburn Shinn 362

In Time of Drought Milicent Washburn Shinn 69

Learned by the Way James Berry Bensel 268

Love's Knightriness Charles Edwin Markham 36

Moths Round a Lamp Edgar Fawcett 116

Night of Storm, A Ina D. Coolbrith 220

Old Story, An ._, Carlotta Perry 241

Parted .'. Katharine Lee Bates 452

Royal Wine, The Alice E. Pratt 522

Ruby-throat L. H. Bartram 410

To Ethel S. E. Anderson 47

Washington Territory Joaquin Miller 310

THE CALIFORNIA^

WESTERN MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

VOL. III.— JANUARY, 1881.— No. 13.

THE AMERICAN IMITATION OF ENGLAND.

A COLLOQUY.

[SCENE — MR. RALPH ENDICOTT'S library, furnished in old English style. MR. ENDICOTT stands beside his wife
at the window, looking out over the Berkshire hills. He is tall and fair, and his black velvet morning-coat
sets off his wavy yellow hair and auburn beard. She is slender and dark. Her clear, olive skin has a faint
tinge of color on the cheeks. The outline of her face is exquisite, and she has very thick, dark hair, and
fine eyes.]

ENDICOTT. If he were only less of a cad !

MRS. ENDICOTT. He is very good-natured.

ENDICOTT. Oh, he is not half a bad fellow ;
but he is so horribly, so demonstratively Amer-
ican.

MRS. ENDICOTT (smiling'}. We, also, are
American, Ralph.

ENDICOTT. At least we don't shake the fact
in every one's face. Yesterday, when he was
talking to Anstice at dinner, I grew hot half a
dozen times at his bragging. He hadn't the
sense to see how distasteful his talk was to me.
By Jove, I longed to throw him out of the win-
dow.

MRS. ENDICOTT (patting his arm'}. Sir Wil-
frid didn't seem to mind. And, certainly, he
must have seen how heroically you struggled
to change the conversation. I pitied you from
my heart, but I was too far off to help you.

ENDICOTT (lifting the hand on his arm and
kissing it}. You were an angel. Only the oc-
casional warning signals I caught from your
eyes enabled me to keep from blazing out at
Havens. But it wasn't in my character of host
that I suffered most ; though it isn't pleasant to
invite your friends to hear their country abused.
Still, Anstice is a gentleman, and understood.
The worst thing was that Havens's talk made

me ashamed of my country. I haven't a doubt
Anstice thought him a representative Ameri-
can. Good heavens, Margaret ! Do you sup-
pose he is?

MRS. ENDICOTT. A Western American ? I
don't know. Perhaps. Hush ! I hear him in
the hall. He is talking to Nelly.

ENDICOTT. Uncommonly good running he
seems to make with Nelly, too, confound him.

MRS. ENDICOTT. She sympathizes with him
in his disgust at what they call our "English
nonsense." Good morning, dear. Did you
have a pleasant walk?

[Enter Miss NELLY GOODRICH, of Kansas City, Mis-
souri, a very pretty girl, whose brown hair has been
roughed by the wind and whose brown eyes are shin-
ing-]

Miss NELLY. Perfectly lovely. I think the
Berkshire hills are too beautiful for anything.
Don't say now that I don't admire something
in Massachusetts. I think the scenery is per-
fection— I dote on it.

MRS. ENDICOTT. We would prefer to have
you dote on the people.

Miss NELLY. I don't. I can't help it. I
suppose it's my unlucky Western education. I

THE CALIFORNIA^.

can't play tennis or whist; I don't do Ken-
sington needlework ; I've never been to Europe,
and I hate, hate, hate Henry James—

[Enter MR. CYRUS L. HAVENS, of Chicago. He is a
tall young man of thirty or thirty-five, handsome, and
carrying himself well, if with something of assertion.]

MR. HAVENS. Hullo! Who's Nelly hat-
ing? Who is Henry James, anyhow, Cousin
Margaret — somebody I ain't met yet ?

ENDICOTT (grimly}. No. He's an author.

HAVENS. Oh, yes — solitary horseman fel-
low. He's rather slow. But what do you want
to waste so much emotion on that dead old
party for, Nelly?

Miss NELLY (looking sidewise at Endicott
to detect any hint of a smile}. It is another
man, Mr. Havens. Henry James is a smart
young American, who lives in London, and is
making a fortune by ridiculing his own country.

HAVENS. Don't take much stock in Aim, if
that's the case. What's the use of having a
country if you can't stand up for it?

Miss NELLY. That's what I think. But
wherever I go, East, I run into people who can't
find anything good enough for them in their
own country. They import everything from
England or from France. In New York, it was
all France ; but here, it's all England. They
get their furniture, and their dishes, and their
cookery, and their coachmen, and even their
accent, from England. When I went to Bos-
ton, the other day, I was told eight times in an
evening that the Bostonians, according to Eng-
lish testimony, spoke the purest English going.
All the young men I met were dressed by Eng-
lish tailors, and talked just like characters in
English novels. Mercy knows ! they were stu-
pid enough to have been in a novel themselves.

ENDICOTT. We never could get you to say
much about that dinner before, Nelly. I am
glad to get particulars.

Miss NELLY. I didn't enjoy the occasion
enough to talk about it much.

MRS. ENDICOTT. But Aunt Millicent?

Miss NELLY. Aunt Millicent was a saint in
good clothes, as she always is. But, of course,
she couldn't be with me every minute. And
the others — I never was so genteelly snubbed
in my life.

HAVENS (who has been tugging fiercely at
his mustache for the last five minates}. Peo-
ple's notions of politeness differ. Now, in Chi-
cago, when we go to see people and meet a
stranger, we think it the polite thing to make
it as pleasant, as we can for him.

ENDICOTT. Yes ; you tell him what a won-
derful city you have, and describe its beauties.
I have been in Chicago.

MRS. ENDICOTT. But, Nelly, I can't believe
that any of Aunt Millicent's friends could have
been so rude. You must have fancied —

Miss NELLY. Oh, I don't mean that they
were ri ^e. They were dreadfully well behaved
and pi- Je. Nobody said a word — that was
just it, ton't you see? They were so careful,
whenever- showed my ignorance of something
that they seemed to know as well as their own
names, they changed the conversation, and
talked abou^ nice, easy, common things — like
Indians. It s amusing how they all seemed
to think I L be interested in the Indians.
The fact is, tver saw an Indian in my life.
I suppose thv _ thought I was a kind of savage
myself. I know I felt very much like one. I
was perfectly possessed to say something shock-
ing, they were all so prim and so proper, and
all talking in the same Englishy way, with such
a horid, indefinite expression about them, as
though they knew it all. I couldn't help seeing
that everything I thought fine they despised,
and everything they seemed to be enthusiastic
about I thought silly or else hideous.

HAVENS. Well, I'm glad I didn't go.

Miss NELLY. You may be. You would
have been an awful comfort, though ; only I'm
afraid you would have disgraced yourself by
laughing right out over some of the things they
said and did. I wish you could have heard
them go on about some frightful engravings, by
some old German — I've forgot his name. No,
they weren't engravings — they were etchings.
Aunt Millicent had just paid some fabulous
price for the old horrors, and everybody was
looking at them. And there was some needle-
work, too, that they looked at and admired.
One of the men was a good deal more inter-
ested than the women. Think of a man's be-
ing interested in fancy-work! I told him I
thought it was queer a gentleman should care
for such things.

MRS. ENDICOTT. That must have been
Philip Locke. Didn't you find him agreeable?

Miss NELLY. Indeed, I didn't. He was
horrid. Every once in a while, though his face
was perfectly sober, his eyes would flash in such
a way I knew he was laughing at me. And he
was so English. He put "don't you think?" at
the end of every sentence. I hated him. He
knew Henry James, and said he was a delight-
ful fellow.

MRS. ENDICOTT. Wasn't there any one
there whom you liked?

Miss NELLY. Well, there was one man I
thought rather nice; but, afterward, I found
he was dreadfully talented, and had written a
book about "quarternions," and, as I hadn't the
ghost of an idea what that was, I thought I'd

THE AMERICAN IMITATION OF ENGLAND.

better fight shy of him. Then there was an-
other man I liked the looks of, but he was /g"o-
ing to reform the civil service, and at dinner I
heard him telling his next neighbor h< / great,
and grand, and glorious, and perfect -ie Eng-
lish civil service was; so I thought t> t was all
I cared to know about him. And p'j ,ie was a
very pretty girl who came up U, me, and I
thought I should get along with her because
she said she couldn't learn to ptey tennis; but
when I overheard her talking" icrbert Spen-
cer to a dreadful man who " y him, I gave
her up, too.

MRS. ENDICOTT. Did she , .ave light hair,
and dark eyes, and very pretty dimples?

Miss NELLY. Yes. Why?

MRS. ENDICOTT. It was Amy Carinth. In
spite of Herbert Spencer, she is a very charm-
ing, unassuming girl, and I am sure you would
have liked her.

Miss NELLY. No, I wouldn't Excuse me
for contradicting, but I never could like a per-
son who talked of the "lower clawses," and
thought a limited monarchy had great advan-
tages.

HAVENS. I wish all these folks who are so
keen for monarchy, and set themselves up for
aristocrats, would take themselves off where
they belong. We haven't any use for them.
This is a free country, where one man's as good
as another.

MRS. ENDICOTT (gently}. I am afraid, Cy-
rus, there is no place in all this world where
one man is as good as another, and there never
will be.

HAVENS. I don't think I see just what you
are driving at. I don't mean good in a moral
sense. I mean politically, and well, so-
cially.

MRS. ENDICOTT. You have a large pork-
packing establishment, I believe, Cyrus. Did
you ever ask any of your "hands" to dine with
you ?

HAVENS. Don't ask questions to trip me up,
like those dialogues of Socrates they used to
have in the Speaker. Of course, you know why.
If I don't ask Tim O'Brien, for instance, to
take dinner with me, it ain't because I hold my-
self up to be a whit better man than Tim, for I
can tell you that I am not. I only wish I was
as good. No; it's simply because Tim's ways
are not my ways, and we wouldn't jibe together.
He would be as uncomfortable as I. But I
don't feel called upon to give myself airs to
Tim just because I have had a better educa-
tion, and eat with my fork, while he finds a
knife handy.

ENDICOTT. Nor do I give myself airs of su-
periority when I recognize such a fact, and talk

about the "lower classes," and refuse to speak
of Tim O'Brien as a gentleman.

HAVENS. Don't you chip in, Ralph. I'm
waiting to hear Margaret point her own moral.

MRS. ENDICOTT. I merely meant, Cyrus, that
it is unhappily true that men are not born free
and equal. Some are born weak and some are
born strong, some healthy, some deformed, and,
I am afraid we must admit, also, some good and
some bad. The differences between men run
deep as human nature, and no political system
has ever been able to smooth them out —

HAVENS. I know all that. But what I'm
after is just this : Granted there are natural
barriers between men. Well, I hold that is the
very reason why we shouldn't be building arti-
ficial ones. Let the best man take the best
place, I say; but don't let's give a man a place
just because his great-grandfather was the best
man. Don't let's import the infernal spirit of
caste, which is about played out in the old world,
into our new world. Don't let's imitate effete
aristocracies and their ways. No, sir. Let's
stand on our own feet, and believe in our own
country, and give every man a show on his
merits.

Miss NELLY (clapping her hands}. Three
cheers for our side !

ENDICOTT. But who is your best man? Are
you going to allow him to be civilized, or will
civilization make him too much of an effete
aristocrat? Beg pardon, Margaret; were you
going to say something ?

MRS. ENDICOTT. I was going to say that
Cyrus and I were, may be, a little like the
knights who quarreled about the shield. Per-
haps I haven't made what I meant quite clear,
yet I think that, just as civilized men are wide-
ly removed from savages, in all their feelings,
and ideals, and customs of life, so certain class-
es of civilized men — though, of course, not so
widely — are removed from each other in the
same way, according as they are more or less
civilized; and I see no dishonor to any class in
the frank recognition of this fact. It is no kind-
ness to a man to tell him he is your equal when
he is not.

HAVENS. But suppose I say he is my equal.
Take Tim O'Brien, who can't read or write, but
who has a good^clear head upon his shoulders,
and is as honest as the sun. Ain't he my
equal ?

MRS. ENDICOTT. I have no doubt that Mr
O'Brien is a very worthy man. But you axe
honest also, and have a "good head on your
shoulders," while you have what he has not, that
wider view of the world, and refinement of feel-
ing, and capacity to use men and things which
education —

THE CALIFORNIAN.

HAVENS. Spare my blushes! Take away
the taffy !

ENDICOTT (aside}, "Refinement of feeling !"
By Jove, she is trying the "sweet reasonable-
ness" of persuasion with a vengeance !

MRS. ENDICOTT. At least, if you havenVs
all these fine things, you ought to have.

HAVENS. Oh, I admit I have. What then?

MRS. ENDICOTT. Then Tim O'Brien is not
your equal, and can't be until he gets those
very same things.

ENDICOTT. And they say women haven't
the logical faculty ! Hear! Hear! Four gen-
erations of lawyers are speaking through you,
Margaret. I listen with a — (She puts her
hand over his mouth, laughing}.

MRS. ENDICOTT. He shan't make fun of
me, shall he, Cyrus?

ENDICOTT. I will be good. I will be very
good. Now, Cyrus, I am going to make re-
marks— if I may, madam? Thanks. Cyrus,
do you, or don't you, consider civilization of ac-
count ?

HAVENS (starting a little — he has been look-
ing from his cousin to Miss Nelly, with a rather
singular expression}. What say?

ENDICOTT. Do you think civilization is worth
anything?

HAVENS. Of course I do.

ENDICOTT. Then it is worth trying to at-
tain ?

HAVENS. Come, now, don't you be trying
Socrates on me, too.

ENDICOTT. And if some other nation hap-
pens, in some ways, to be more civilized than
we, why should we not imitate her in those
ways, even though she be an effete aristocracy?
If we raise better or cheaper beef than England,
England takes our beef; because we mix drinks
better than they do in England, all over Eng-
land one sees signs of American drinks. Now,
if the English order their households in such a
way that life is easier, and their women are
healthier, why should not we do likewise? If
tennis is an innocent, pleasant, healthful game,
why should we refuse to play it only because
the English aristocracy enjoy it? If the Eng-
lish speak their own language better than we —

Miss NELLY and HAVENS (at the same mo-
ment}. They dorit!

ENDICOTT. The best authorities think that
they do, taking everything into account. WThy,
if they do, shouldn't we speak it as they do?
If the English civil service is better than ours,
why shouldn't we study its merits, and try to
copy them, while avoiding its defects? The

imitation of English ways and manners, and all
tljat sort of thing, of course, has plenty of silli-
ncjs and snobbishness mixed up in it ; but it has
•£ vasi" ,deal of sense in it as well. One of the
toaster V tendencies of civilization is to break
cfyjjm national distinctions, and help each na-
tion to obtain the best in all. And shan't we
borrow ideas as well as clothes and machines?
Why, look at us ! Here we are, every year,
getting ship-loads of vice and poverty from Eu-
rope ; and, if we don't get some wisdom from
them, too, to show us how to deal with them,
we shall be smothered."

HAVENS. Universal suffrage —

ENDICOTT. — is a good safety-valve, and that
is the best one can say for it. It hasn't saved
the poor from the distinction of their pover-
ty, nor kept our politics clean, nor prevented
our great cities from being a reproach to us.
By Jove, Havens, this country has a heavy
load to carry, and it's poor patriotism to shut
one's eyes and howl, "We're all right, and every
other nation is all wrong." In a hundred ways
we are not right ; and the best thing we can do
is to admit it, and look about us to see how
other nations have managed who have had the
same load to carry which is crushing us.

HAVENS. Oh, they've shifted theirs off on
to our shoulders.

ENDICOTT. They have enough left. And
it is worth our while to study their methods.
We can't afford to neglect anything which will
help to civilize all ranks. It is a matter of life
and death with us, for universal suffrage has its
own dangers.

Miss NELLY. Well, for my part, I can't see
what there is peculiarly civilizing or elevating
to the poor, or anything of that sort, in saying
"I fancy," instead of "I guess," or putting a
coachman into a light overcoat and three capes,
or being waited on at dinner by a man in a
swallow-tail.

MRS. ENDICOTT. The fork, also, is a mere
prejudice.

[Enter EDWIN, the butler.]
EDWIN. Sir Wilfrid Anstice.
[Enter SIR WILFRID.]

SIR WILFRID (bowing all around}. Endicott
has promised to teach me to play poker, your
great game, and I'm come to learn —

CURTAIN.

OCTAVE THANET.

HYDRAULIC MINING.

HYDRAULIC MINING.— NEED OF STATE ACTION
UPON OUR RIVERS.

Hydraulic mining is one of the conspicuous
industries of California, both because its opera-
tions are upon so extended a scale and are so
uniqae among industrial processes, and because
its products are so large and concentrated. It
lies, however, aside from the central routes of
travel, and without the range of ordinary obser-
vation, and, as a consequence, is known only
by reports. Very few of those familiar with it
by name have had the opportunity to examine
it so thoroughly as to have a correct conception
of its methods and its peculiar bearing upon
the industry of the region of its operations and
upon the prosperity of the State ; yet, just at this
time, when a question, resulting from it, in re-
gard to our navigable rivers, is before the State
for action, a thorough understanding of its his-
tory, methods, and results would aid much to
effective legislation and engineering.

Its history is soon told. Hydraulic mining
was never practiced before in any part of the
world. It was projected and developed in Cal-
ifornia, and is one of the wonders she can show
the old and the new continents. The gold-
seekers of '49 used the rocker and cradle, and
subsequently took to drifting, gravel, and quartz
mining. The first recorded hydraulic mining
is in 1856. In one of the many mining towns
of the Sierra an ingenious individual conceived
the idea of bringing water through a canvas
hose from an elevated barrel. With a head of
sixteen feet, the stream from the nozzle washed
a bank he wished to mine into his sluice-boxes.
There was not wanting ingenuity and enterprise
among the thousands of energetic adventurers
then in our mountains to enlarge upon and vary
the application of the principle he had thus
brought to the service of man. The successive
steps in the development of the process were
too speedy and varied to be followed in this
article. It is within the last ten years that the
large and powerful machinery and cunning
methods and devices have been completely de-
veloped.

Although hydraulic mining has been classed
with quartz and drift mining, the similarity ex-
tends only to the region of operations and to
the nature of the product. In methods, and in
the bearing upon the region, and upon other
industries, the former differs distinctively from
the latter, and must be studied alone. The ef-

ficient cause of the difference is the difference
of the gold sources upon which the two divisions
of mining are mainly occupied. The placers,
as distinguished from the quartz veins, are grav-
el beds found generally in the ridges adjacent
to the river canons, but higher up than the
river beds. They are ordinarily capped by lay-
ers of rock and dirt which contain but a trace
of gold. The mode in which these placers were
formed from quartz veins is interesting, and a
knowledge of it will aid in understanding the
peculiar nature and results of this species of
mining. Through the investigations of Pro-
fessor Joseph LeConte, it has been determined
to the satisfaction of most geologists. All of
North America, northward from a line through
the southern part of the United States, was cov-
ered in the geologic era preceding the present
one by an ice-cap similar to that now covering
Greenland. The northern part of California
and most of Oregon, with the adjacent Territo-
ries, were also covered, at some preceding pe-
riod, by an outflow of lava to the depth of from
three to five thousand feet, from great cracks
near the base of the Sierra Nevada. The Co-
lumbia has cut a canon through this from one
to three thousand feet deep, and the lava beds
of Modoc notoriety are but a rougher part of
this general lava covering. The geologic evi-
dence indicates that just as the glacial epoch
was coming on, and large masses of ice, espe-
cially in the higher regions, had accumulated,
the earth commenced to get warm from the im-
pending lava flow. The ice, melted by the in-
ternal heat, caused destructive floods. These
tore down cliffs and the inclosed quartz veins
into which the gold had been secreted from the
surrounding rock. The dirt and rock fragments
were carried down by the floods, and the river
canons were gorged and filled with the frag-
ments of rock and quartz. Before the rivers
could cut them out again, the lava flow came
and covered the gravel-filled beds. The sever-
ity of the glacial epoch then came on. As it
passed away the rivers appeared again, and
commenced cutting new channels. Since the
lava was thinnest above the old divides, the
new river channels were cut there. At the
same time with the lava flow there seems to
have been a general elevation of the Sierra Ne-
vada. As a consequence, the new rivers cut

THE CALTFORNIAN.

deep canons below their old beds, leaving these
far up the sides of the canons, as layers of gravel
capped by layers of lava or ashes. The gravel
miners tunnel into these beds, carry the gravel
of the pay-streak to the mouth of the tunnel,
and there wash it, leaving the hill intact. Their
operations and results are thus very similar to
those of the quartz miner. The hydraulic proc-
ess, however, brings down the gravel bed with
the superincumbent cliff from fifty to four hun-
dred feet in hight, to be washed in the sluices.
The companies have possessed themselves of
water-rights upon the heads of the various riv-
ers, where an immense supply is stored and fur-
nished by the snow- fields of the Sierra. The
water is brought to the neighborhood of the
works through ditches and flumes, that wind
for miles around the dizzy sides of cliffs and in
and out of numberless canons. It is then re-
ceived in strong iron pipes, one foot or more in
diameter. In these it is carried down four hun-
dred to a thousand feet, to the scene of the min-
ing, where it is projected from the "Little Gi-
ant" (a nozzle of the ordinary shape, but from
four to eight inches in diameter at its mouth)
in a stream that tears down the cliffs and sends
earth and huge bowlders and stones rolling pell-
mell to the sluice -boxes. The amount of the
material thus washed down it is difficult to con-
ceive, and it was not definitely known until the
investigations of State Engineer Hall. In his
report he states that the material washed down
by hydraulic mining in one year amounts to
53,404,000 cubic yards, or enough to cover sev-
enteen square miles one yard in depth. The
difference between the few hundred thousand
cubic yards produced by quartz and gravel min-
ing and this gigantic washing is the first differ-
ence between these two methods of mining.
But it might be anticipated, from the nature of
the placers, that they would not last always,
and so the Engineer is of the opinion that, with
the increasing extent of the operations, the
profitable gravel -beds will be worked out in
thirty years. As yet, however, there are miles
of gold-bearing hills to be washed. In places
there are ridges extending as much as ten miles
waiting to be worked.

At present, this class of mining produces one-
half of the gold yield of the State. The es-
timated yield of 1878 was $16,000,000, of which
$8,000,000 was from hydraulic mining. Hy-
draulic mining, however, cannot be carried on
except by large companies, since the water-
rights, ditching, machinery, etc., require a large
outlay. As a consequence, there are but few
companies, all large ones. Upon the Bear,
Yuba, and Feather Rivers, they number some
nineteen. Thus, in an industrial point of view,

it has a different social bearing from the other
division of mining. A man of very small capi-
tal can open a quartz mine ; and throughout the
mountains, there are hundreds of companies
engaged in quartz and gravel mining whose
whole capital ranges from $1,000 to $10,000.
While in the case of the latter the proprietors
are actual residents, in the former the stock -
owners are almost entirely non- resident; in-
deed, much of the stock is owned in London.
In the hydraulic mines, also, the dirt is moved,
and most of the work done by water-power, so
that mines paying a profit upon $500,000, or a
$1,000,000, employ only from twenty- five to
fifty men. Before the Third District Court,
Senator Sargent, who is interested in the mines,
testified that the hydraulic mines upon the Bear
River (one of the three principal hydraulic re-
gions), afforded employment to only four hun-
dred men. With quartz and gravel mines, it is
different. The dirt is obtained from the tunnel
by actual labor. Many of these mines, paying
a profit upon a capital of from $10,000 to $20,-
ooo, employ as many men as do the large hy-
draulic companies. It thus becomes evident
that, while hydraulic mining may produce one-
half the gold product, yet, in a local point of
view, it is of minor importance. Quartz and
gravel mines are much more numerous, furnish
more general employment, and the proprietors
are more frequently actual residents. The gold
products from these species of mining enter the
local channels of trade, augment, and in reality
support, the business of the region, while the
major part of the product of hydraulic mining
goes to San Francisco and London, and other
regions enjoy the benefits. When it does cease,
as it is bound to, in the ordinary course of
things, in thirty years, it is evident that it will
leave no such gap in the business or the labor
market of that region, and turn no such army
of laborers adrift, as would the general stop-
page of quartz mining effect. The social disturb-
ance will leave no trace, after the course of a
season, during which the supply of labor is ad-
justing itself anew. Another distinction in the
social bearing of the two divisions of mining,
is also well marked. The quartz ledges are
scattered in countless numbers through the
mountains, and as thousands have been found,
so there are other thousands undiscovered,
leaving open, to multitudes of lucky and enter-
prising men, chances of securing fortunes. The
placers, being filled -up river channels, can be
traced up when discovered, and their whole
extent located. Thus this mineral producing
source of our State has been secured at nomi-
nal prices, by a number of large companies,
who enjoy the riches which are shared in the

HYDRAULIC MINING.

case of quartz mining by whole communities of
men. This mineral wealth does not increase
the business and population of the region, as
do the quartz ledges, which distribute their
gifts to tens of thousands of men of moderate
fortunes, who are, in the main, actual residents.
Hydraulic mining, however, has performed a
service for the foothills of the Sierra Nevada
which could have come from no other indus-
try, in furnishing to localities the means of irri-
gation, at an early time, when the needs of agri-
culture would not have warranted the State, or
individuals, in introducing any sort of a system
of irrigation. Nevada City, and many other
towns in the hills, as well as some farms along
the line of the ditches, received water at an
earlier date than they could have had it other-
wise, and are still furnished with an abundant
supply. But, at present, when the agricultural
capabilities of the lower regions of the Sierra
Nevada, with the aid of irrigation, has become
apparent, the hydraulic mining rather prevents
than aids the introduction of a thorough system
of irrigation, and thus the thorough develop-
ment of that region. There are some six mill-
ion acres in the foothills capable of producing
fruit, raisins, wine, olive oil, and all kinds of
dairy produce ; capable, in fact, of combining
the fertility of the English hilly soils with the
two -fold productions of Italy and England,
when provided with irrigation. The supply of
water must be found in the higher Sierras, but
the water -rights and available ditch routes are
owned by the hydraulic mining companies, who
find it more profitable to use any additional
supply of water in extending their operations,
rather than in making the outlay necessary for
a comprehensive system of ditches, with profits
to accrue from a demand not in actual existence,
but to spring from an agricultural activity to
be caused by the prospect of abundant water.
Furthermore, if such an agricultural activity
were aroused, the growing needs of that vigor-
ous industry might soon demand an encroach-
ment upon the supply for mining. The agri-
culturists might soon become numerous and
energetic enough to secure State action, by
which some — at least — of the water -rights of
the companies would be condemned, and turned
to the service of the agricultural community.
It is against the interests of the companies to
court the disturbance this would occasion them.
Meanwhile, the introduction of anything like an
adequate system, by private individuals is pre-
vented by the want of opportunity, since all the
water-rights and ditch courses are occupied;
and on the part of the State, it is impossible,
since, in the hill counties, the towns are sup-
plied with water and are content, and the farm-

ing class, who feel the need of it, are too poor
to make it a public question.

These are the main points in the relation of
hydraulic mining to the region of its opera-
tions, which must be fully understood before
the real importance of the industry can be ap-
preciated. But its more prominent influence
upon the rest of the State, through the tailings
emptied into the Yuba, Bear, Feather, and
American, is imperfectly understood by those
who have not experienced the actual effects on
the districts traversed by the rivers. Yet, now
that the treatment of the question of amending
the state of things in Sacramento Valley has
been assumed by the State, a safe decison re-
quires a more accurate acquaintance by the gen-
eral public with the true condition of the upper
Sacramento Valley. Jt is only then that the
urgent need of continued and effective State
action can be understood. Fortunately, in the
investigations of the State Engineer we have
reliable data, which, if surprising, will yet be
accepted unreservedly. The tailings, or debris,
that appear in the valley are of a two-fold char-
acter. They consist, first, of coarse insoluble
sand, which the water rolls in billows along the
bottom, filling up and leveling all inequalities
and deep holes. As fast as the channel behind
is leveled, the front of this sand advances. The
second constituent is a clay, amounting to some
thirty per cent, of the debris, which is carried
in solution by the water and deposited in the
channels and upon the flood -plains in advance
of the sand.

Its effects reach down to the mputh of the
Sacramento, the scene of its principal deposits
advancing ahead of the sand. The Yuba and
the Bear, the main tributaries of the Feather,
have been affected the most disastrously by the
tailings. They were originally clear streams,
running in channels from fifteen to thirty feet
in depth, over pebbly beds; upon either side
were the bottoms, extending two or three miles
to the redland, and covered with oak and buck-
eye forests, broken by moist, grassy meadows
and glades. The crystal water was filled with
trout, and shoals of salmon annually ascended
to spawning grounds upon their head -waters.
At times, during the winter floods, the water
ran over the bottoms, leaving a film of fertiliz-
ing deposit, from the washings upon the hill-
sides above, but receded in a few hours, caus-
ing no damage of moment to the lands or prop-
erty on either side. The soil was a rich, black
allluvium, as fertile as the richest alluvial loams
in the world. Many valuable orchards were
scattered along the rivers from the hills to their
mouths. About 1860 the sand began to appear
from the canons, where it had paved its way

THE CALIFORNIAN.

down. It entered and filled the channels to
the brim, and commenced to spread upon the
bottoms on either side. The low levees, for-
merly adequate to confine flood -waters, were
overtopped, and the river began to flow upon a
constantly raising bed of sand. Each year the
levees had to be raised, to cause the floods and
sand to sweep farther down; and with each
year, one after another farmer gave up, as the
water overtopped his levee and buried his
land in the sand. Upon the south side of the
Yuba, not a single farm remains upon the river
bottom. The whole reach of alluvial bottom is
covered in coarse sand, from ten to sixteen feet
in depth, which either lies in barren sand-tracts
or is covered with a growth of willows and cot-
tonwoods, over which the river spreads and
threatens to swerve aside upon the redlands.
Upon the north side, Marysville alone remains,
surrounded by levees, with the water above the
level of her streets, and compelled to pump the
seepage water into the river. The original chan-
nel of the Bear River is obliterated, and the
sandy level over which it flows is from seven to
ten feet high above the small portion of its for-
mer bottom, still preserved for a few miles upon
its northern side. The State Engineer states
that the Yuba has been filled at Smartsville
dumps one hundred and twenty-five feet, at the
Yuba mill and mining shaft, eighty feet — both
places where the river is about leaving the hills ;
and at its mouth, some sixteen miles below, the
low-water plane has been raised from thirteen
to sixteen feet. The land alone, destroyed upon
the Bear, Yuba, and Feather, he has estimated
at $2,597,235 ; but his estimate is low in many
cases, and he instances an orchard of six hun-
dred and forty acres, formerly considered worth
$640,000, "whose tree-tops are now found above
the sand with which they have been covered,"
whose former value he estimates at a hundred
dollars an acre only, and for whose present val-
ue fifty cents an acre, he says, would be a lib-
eral estimate. The losses in crops, improve-
ments, etc., he says, are not capable of definite
estimation, but are probably several times the
more tangible loss in lands. The property in
Marysville has depreciated, since 1860, from
$3,823,518 to $1,703,900 in 1880, according to
the Assessor's figures. Nor does this represent
the total loss, since the population and property
ought to have increased greatly in twenty years.
Four times the loss of land, or $10,390,540, is
allowable at the least, according to his figures,
for losses of lands and improvements. Add to
this, $2,000,000, the perceptible depreciation in
Marysville, and the total loss to the region and
to individuals has been only approached. There
is still the depreciation in other adjacent prop-

erty, money sunk year after year in unsuccess-
ful levees, and the loss from a prospective de-
velopment arrested.

But there is a further loss, incapable of esti-
mation, in the destruction of the rivers — as
means of exit for the crops, and as a leverage
by which the freights could be brought to the
lowest reasonable figures ; as a source of food,
in the fish, that formerly swarmed in their wa-
ters, but have now utterly deserted the viscid,
muddy rivers, which have proved uninhabitable
to them ; and, finally, in the increased unhealth-
fulness, and the loss of the added pleasure to
life derived from a sparkling stream with its
opportunities for enjoyment. We are so accus-
tomed to hear of millions that it is difficult to
conceive of the magnitude of this calculated
loss. Twelve millions, the least loss capable of
being definitely fixed, is an enormous sum.
But the injury done by the debris is not confined
to these regions where the land is actually bur-
ied— to the gray-haired men, deprived of homes
and property, of the savings and results of a vig-
orous youth and prime. There is a further in-
jury to the State system of drainage and river
navigation fairly commenced, and to be consum-
mated in five years, if unhindered, whose mag-
nitude, estimated as bearing upon the future
prosperity of the State, far exceeds the ten or
twenty millions injury upon the minor rivers.
The navigation of the Feather is almost at a
standstill. Only a small portion of the wheat
crop is moved down by its means. On the Sac-
ramento, it is known that in the "fifties" steam-
ers of one thousand tons ascended to the capi-
tal; now only small stern -wheel steamers, of
three or four feet draught, and two hundred tons
or less, ascend it, and then with frequent stop-
pages upon the bars. Three or four of these,
only, ply between the bay and the city. Engi-
neer Hall reports that below the mouth of the
American River, along the water-front of Sac-
ramento City and below, the maximum fill in the
river has been thirty feet, and the average fill
fifteen and two -tenths feet. The former deep
reaches are filled up, and bars are frequent.
The San Joaquin will soon suffer by the clog-
ging of the lower Sacramento and Suisun Bay.
Thus the whole system of inland navigation is
in a fair way to be ruined. These rivers serve,
also, as a drainage system for the whole inland
valley of California ; but Engineer Hall states
(page 13, part III, of his report) that the car-
rying capacity of the Feather, and of the Sacra-
mento below the mouth of the Feather, for flood
waters between their natural banks, has been
reduced thirty per cent., and in some places
fifty per cent. The water is backed up into the
upper Sacramento Valley, where the debris is

HYDRAULIC MINING.

not seen, and more frequent floods at Colusa
and above are the result. The waters of the San
Joaquin will soon fail of a ready outlet into the
Sacramento, and, in its comparatively level val-
ley, floods will be aggravated. Meanwhile, to
this actual lessening of the carrying capacity of
the Sacramento is distinctly traceable the flood
that caused a loss of $500,000 in the Sacra-
mento Valley in 1878, and those of the last win-
ter, when it seemed that the levees at some
places on one side or the other must break and
relieve the river. Sacramento City is coming
to occupy a situation similar to that of Marys-
ville. The embankment built by the Railroad
Company has been a protection for a number
of years, but it was with difficulty that the water
was kept out last winter. In spite of the fact
that the city was raised a number of years ago
some twelve feet, her drainage is now in a fair
way to be interrupted, in the winter, at least —
during which season, when the levees at points
far below her break, the break-water will threat-
en her, as happened in the last winter. Below
the city the drainage is already interfered with.
For twenty miles the orchards are injured, and
trees are dying in consequence of the raising of
the water-line in the grounds. If the flood-car-
rying capacity of the Sacramento has been re-
duced one-third, and the steamers plying upon
it have been reduced from one thousand to two
hundred tons, and to three and four feet draught,
in the last fifteen years, in the next five years it
will be rendered entirely unnavigable, and its
usefulness as a flood-carrier entirely destroyed,
for the reason that the sand which formerly
lodged in the reaches of the Yuba and Bear,
and made these rivers inclined planes, is de-
scending into the Feather, while the light mate-
rial formerly deposited in the Feather proceeds
to the Sacramento. As it is, the Engineer esti-
mates that in the past the lower Sacramento has
been carrying annually of this soluble material
from the mines, 13,200,000 cubic yards, or
enough to cover four square miles a yard in
depth, much of which reaches the bay. It is
thus plain that, while a special and signal injury
is being done to the region where the sand
actually covers the land, and an incalculable
hardship and injustice is being worked to the
multitude of individuals whose property is par-
tially or totally ruined, yet, in addition, the
whole State is about to suffer an injury by the
destruction of its navigable streams and drain-
age system that cannot be estimated. The
urgency of effective action immediately is evi-
dent. The last Legislature passed what is
known as the "Young Bill," providing for a
State tax of one -twentieth of one per cent., a
small district tax upon the farming and mining

counties immediately affected, and a tax upon
the water used by the hydraulic mining compa-
nies. The money was to be used in construct-
ing a series of stone dams in the canons of the
rivers, behind which the debris could be lodged,
and in erecting levees upon the Yuba, Bear,
and Feather, to protect land in imminent dan-
ger, according to the scheme reported by the
State Engineer. In his report he has desig-
nated sites for dams to be raised annually,
which would have sufficient capacity to hold
all the sand and heavy material produced dur-
ing the next thirty years. To complete these
works upon the Yuba he estimates that $2,894,-
534 will be required, or about $100,000 a year,
upon the average ; but of the total sum $500,000
will be required the first year, and diminishing
amounts each succeeding year. To build clams
upon the Yuba, Bear, Feather, and American,
he estimates will require $233,000 a year, or
$6,990,000 in the thirty years. In accordance
with the bill, a district was organized and a
Board of Commissioners appointed to determine
and execute the work to be done. Three dams
will be built to the hight of eight feet this year,
two in the Yuba and one in the Bear; but they
will be of brush instead of stone.

This is the only method the State can adopt
to prevent further injury upon the upper rivers
and the destruction of Sacramento River, and
it may be of Suisun Bay, short of forbidding
the emptying of tailings into the river. It is
necessary, for her own protection, that the State
should act, and since the works are to prevent
any injury to her, as a whole, it would be an in-
justice to assess the cost upon any particular
district ; and, indeed, the burden would ruin any
district upon which it should be imposed. Fur-
thermore, it is the State's duty toward the por-
tions of her citizens upon the Yuba, Bear, and
Feather. It is a plain principle of our Govern-
ment, that every citizen has a right to the en-
joyment of his property, free from obstruction,
or injury upon the part of others. He has also
a right to such use of the waters of an adjacent
stream, as serves his purposes, so long as he
causes no detriment to those below him, and
does not prevent their enjoyment of the stream.
In these rights, it is recognized that it is the
duty of the State to protect him. The case of
the citizens upon these rivers, is a plain appli-
cation of these principles. The property of a
part has been, and of the rest is being, destroy-
ed by the sand emptied into the streams and
brought down ; and it is the duty of the State
to protect them from further injury, by prevent-
ing the further flow of the debris into the val-
ley. It can do this, either by dams in the
canons, or by preventing the introduction of

THE CALIFORNIAN.

tailings into the rivers in the future. They
are suffering an injustice at the hands of the
State, who had the power and whose province
it was to protect them. Morally, the State
ought to make them restitution, although it can-
not be exacted from her now by legal means.
But here arises an interesting and curious
question. May it not be possible, in time, that
the State will be made liable for such injuries
suffered, because of its inaction, where it should
have protected, as was the city of Philadelphia
for the destruction of $3,000,000 worth of prop-
erty by the riots her police should have sup-

pressed? Were such a principle introduced into
law, and the machinery and methods devised
to apply it, it is evident that it would be one
guarantee secured to weakness, against a dis-
regard of the rights guaranteed it by the State.
It would prompt Legislatures to greater vigi-
lance, and more speedy attempts to arrest in-
justice, where it was within the power and prov-
ince of the State to do so, in the same way that
the principle in regard to the liability of cities
makes municipal governments a little more vig-
orous in their dealings with mobs.

JOHN H. DURST.

A CHILD'S JOURNEY THROUGH ARIZONA AND NEW

MEXICO.

As I look back it seems like the bright and
the dark sides of a dream. From out the heart
of June was born the fairest scene that ever went
unframed. The little valley lay, an uncombed
lawn, between the sloping forests ; and a small
stream, babbling and tinkling, lost a mimic
battle -shout as it ran somewhere between en-
trance and outlet, gleaming like a string of wa-
ter-pearls, shut in between banks. The milk-
ers, at sunrise, went in among the cows, call-
ing and soothing and laughing, and I took my
cup, with the webs of sleep still tangling across
my eyes, and, listening to the plash of the
stream, looked off down the valley. A herd of
antelopes sped away out of vision, frightened at
the echoes of their own retreat. The dark verd-
ure of the forest swept up to the skies that lay
beyond, and miles and miles away rose the
beautiful Mount St. Francisco, his head hoary
with snow. In my child-heart I bowed before
that wondrous mountain and did him rever-
ence. He seemed like God, weird and strange
and set apart; a veil -like atmosphere wound
about him like a garment of holiness ; the snow
was upon his breast like a beard. The whole
world seemed filled with happiness and plenty.

Months after I returned to the spot. I re-
member that I was hungry. Dry leaves skip-
ped and danced about, and a sharp wind
swirled through the little valley. My clothes
were old and worn, and I should have liked a
shawl to wrap around me. Somewhat dwarfed
by greater that I had seen, there was Mount St.
Francisco, with a sheet of rain lying between us.
He was gray and dull, and his glory was dim-
med. The little stream was gathering itself for
winter. I was filled with a sense of desolation.

and I felt that old women should never laugh
for in their long lives they must have been
sorry so many times. That day the last sack
of flour in the camp was brought to our tent
because there was the widow and her children.
They tell me that Prescott, Arizona, has sprung
into life somewhere there since, but I cannot
imagine a town in that wilderness.

There was a city set upon a hill, and it was
called Zuni. It was closely built and thickly
inhabited by half- civilized Indians. On every
hand there were stupid looking eagles, sacred
birds, at whom one must never throw a stone.
I seem also to think of a rude church as belong-
ing there. Small panes of isinglass were set in
the windows, and for safety, in case of the con-
stantly feared invasion by the Navajos, one
sometimes made entrance to the houses by go-
ing up a ladder to the flat roof, and then down
a ladder to the floor. The people were exceed-
ingly hospitable, and greeted the coiner with
"eat, eat." The men tended the babies, knit,
and wove blankets, and the women ground the
corn. A woman grinding corn got upon her
knees, and, taking an ear in her hands, with the
motion of washing clothes, rubbed it on a coarse,
sloping stone. Often, as she ground, she car-
ried a nursing child upon her back, throwing
her breast over her shoulder within its reach.
She chewed constantly what proved to be wheat,
and when it had reached a certain consistency
she took it out and chewed more wheat. I had
eaten heartily of a certain sweet mush they had
given me, but I was hardened to many things,
and I only laughed when I learned it was a
choice dish made of chewed wheat. Also, they
made wafer bread. I saw two albinos, with

A CHILD'S JOURNEY.

white hair and small, weak, pink eyes, who
were looked upon as unfortunates by their
friends.

When I left Zuni the darkness Was gathering
around a cluster of dome-like rocks, that looked
like women in cloaks, and I trembled and cow-
ered close in the covered wagon for fear of Na-
vajos.

One night a little company were gathered
upon a bared elevation, choosing this site be-
cause it was free of chaparral, and no Indians
could lurk near unseen. The oxen were in
yoke, the horses bridled, and if one man spoke
to another it was in a whisper. It is the most
horrible memory of my life, and for years after-
ward I would start away from myself and find
a companion to rid myself of the dread of that
hour. Once my mother, wrapped in a buffalo-
robe, for fear of arrows, and carrying her little
boy in her arms, on Lucy, our old family horse,
rode to the wagon side, and, under her breath,
whispered a word of cheer. One of the oxen
lay down, and his yoke creaked against the
stillness of the night, and immediately every
man put his hand upon the lock of his gun and
steadied his eye. The hoot of an owl, wild and
distinct, before us, was answered by another
hoot behind, and because fear and suffering
had made me wise, I knew they were human
voices signaling each other in the dark. My
own heart seemed to thunder thickly in my
ears, but I stifled it to hear the Indian whoops
and yells a mile back upon the Colorado River,
where we had left all our worldly goods. Oh,
those wild and curdling yells ! They echoed
afterward from every pillow I pressed, they
sounded in every lonely spot, they rushed upon
me in strange moments of mirth, they intruded
in the midst of school-books, and now that
sterner duties have come, here they are still,
flocking about me and mocking till the old fear
and shuddering come again.

A man came to our wagon, and began to
search for something very silently.

"Oh, sir," I said, with falling tears, "why
didn't you save my father?"

He answered :

"My child, it was impossible," and went
hastily away.

In another moment the moon broke forth as
calm and radiantly pale as ever she had been
when she shone upon us in our old home, and
by her light we took up our line of march.

I remember two graves. Sickness, brought
on by exposure and want, had fallen upon the
little boy who had been carried on horseback
that dreadful night through, in his mother's
arms, under a buffalo - robe, to be safe from ar-
rows. Two Mexican women came into the tent,

laughing toward the men as they came, and
one, having learned a little English, pointed to-
ward the sick child and said :

"What ails him?"

Two days afterward, in our wagon, we were
carrying a little coffin to the small burying-
ground set apart by the American inhabitants
of Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was on a
lonesome and sandy hillside, and the wagon
tipped a little as we neared it. It contained
but few graves, but they were all the graves of
white people. When our small hillock was
made, we stood around it, watering it with tears,
and we knew, having once left it, we never
should see it again. We gathered stones and
put upon it, to prevent the digging of wolves ;
and then, having done all, we looked at each
other, dreading to go. We had grown stoical
with starvation and danger, and we had each a
knowledge of death from having stared him in
the face so often ; but, as my mother turned, in
the wagon, to look her last upon the lonely hill-
side, an agonized cry broke from the lips she
had forced shut :

" Oh, my boy, my boy ! How can I leave him
there?"

Along in the middle of one warm afternoon,
I stood by the side of another grave. The
whole landscape was flooded with yellow, and
even the red slide of the mountain -back was
turned to gold. In the distance flowed a broad
and shallow river, its broader bed from which
it had receded shining with yellow sand. It
was the Gila, treacherous, mysterious stream,
which eluded and then sprung noisily upon us ;
whose dry channel we crossed a dozen times
one day to cross it a dozen times again, filled
with water the next. I stood, inured to the
thought of dead people, by the grave at the
roadside, and looked with interest at the mound.
A headboard bore upon it the inscription, "Sa-
cred to the Oatman Family," erected by some
friendly stranger; and the little fence looked
as though it had been carefully constructed of
poles, the ends placed in corner-posts. I had
heard the tale of surprise and murder so often
that I knew it by heart. I had been in the
Pima Village to which Lorenzo Oatman had
crawled, holding his cracked and scalped skull
between his hands. I had been for days in a
camp haunted by the Mojave Indians, among
whom Olive Oatman had been for such a weary
time a captive, and in whose midst her little
sister had died, singing with her last breath the
well known hymn, beginning, "How tedious
and tasteless the hours when Jesus no longer
I see." And this was the grave where reposed
the remains of the four who were murdered by
the wolf- like and ill favored Tonto Apaches,

THE CALIFORNIAN.

whose scowling faces and low -drawn brows I
well knew. I wondered why we had escaped
and they been doomed. I ascended the over-
hanging bluff, and stood among the scattered
remnants of their effects. • Here lay the hub of
a wheel, there a ragged portion of cloth clung
to a bush ; just beyond, a tin-pan, battered and
rusty, half tipped upon a stone ; and each arti-
cle seemed to whisper into my child -ears the
story again. I see yet that red and yellow light
upon the Gila River, the bare slide upon the
mountain, and the Oatman grave, solitary and
desolate, under the bluff.

We were crawling through the desert, and a
parching thirst fell out from the hot sun. The
grains of sand burned the callused soles of my
bare feet, or struck through the moccasins I
put on sometimes. The oxen shut their eyes,
and toiled on, oh, so slowly ! — it was almost like
moving not at all. There was nothing left to
eat but meat taken from the cattle, poor and sick
from alkali, and it must be eaten without salt.
A week ago, Tiger, our faithful dog, had crept
weakly along, his dry tongue hanging from his
mouth, had fallen, scrambled on again, and
finally lain down to die of thirst, and so had
watched us out of sight. He was only a dog,
but it was hard, very hard, to leave him. To-
day a man had made a little wound upon his
hand, and taken the blood from the cut vein to
moisten his mouth. My own lips were swollen
and cracked; my tongue was growing larger,
and constantly searched about in my cheeks
for moisture. Ah, me ! I sighed, and wonder-
ed if these dreadful days would ever end. I
looked away off ahead into the sky. Around
the fire, the night before, I had heard them tell-
ing of a mirage of funeral processions march-
ing up the sky, each figure standing on its head ;
of inverted ships, sailing along the blue out of
the horizon, and other of the strangest tales,
but they did not frighten me any. I feared only
the great comet, the comet of '59. It was, with
its fiery tail, sweeping the heavens, and when I
awoke in the night I hugged the blanket round
my chin, while I shuddered at him and won-
dered if he could be the monster working us
all this evil. But often we traveled in the night,
to escape the heat of the day, and then I kept
always in the wake of my mother's skirts, for
fear of that comet. Then, when for five min-
utes there was a halt allowed, the weary oxen,
women, and children dropped upon the sand
and slept, and, as there was no one to see to
another, each person took precautions for awak-
ening. My mother sat between the wheels, I
often caught one of the spokes, and other hands
grasped the wagon behind to feel its first mo-
tion. A nameless dread shook me one night,

for one of the young girls had failed to waken,
and we had traveled on without her. Oh, hor-
ror!— if it had been I to open my eyes upon
the comet, and find myself alone in the track-
less sand ! When she was recovered, I looked
upon her with awe because of the experience
that had just been hers. Oh, yes ; I knew
what mirage was. There it lay now, quivering
in the horizon like a broad river shining in the
sun, so beautiful, so tantalizing, so tempting,
and so disappointing. Oh, if I could just have
a drink of water ! I would never eat anything
more if they would only give me all the water
I wanted. Would it sizz in my hot throat as it
went down? What sweet, cold water we used
to draw out of the old well at home ! Oh, for
just one cup, only one cup, from that well !
And then one of the men came with a tin buck-
et, and tipped it toward my mouth a little way
— such a very little way that I could not by any
possibility get all I wanted. But it was so good.
And when he was gone I straightway longed
for more, with a consuming, fainting desire that
made me restless and irritable.

One warm day in August, upon the bank of
the muddy Colorado, we children were lazily
sitting about on the ground. One sister was
stringing beads taken from an old moccasin,
and most of the men were sleeping under the
wagons through the heat of the afternoon.
There was a great stillness upon everything,
save for the children's chatter, and a heat rose
from the ground that smote the eyes. Sud-
denly there was a dreadful scream, echoed, re-
echoed, multiplied ; then another, and another,
as when one strikes the hand upon the mouth,
till in one second of time the air seemed rent
and torn with yells. In just that second the
close chaparral had become black with Indi-
ans, who had crawled, serpent -like, on hands
and knees, till, right upon us, in concert they
could leap into sight. They wore cloths upon
their loins, and some had feathers wound in
their hair, with hideous paint glowing on face
and breast. I gazed in dumb amazement, be-
numbed with surprise, and then I think I awoke
to the excitement of the occasion. The women
and children, through an air thick with flying
arrows, were marshaled into one covered wagon,
and there my mother wrapped us all round with
feather-beds, blankets, and comforters. I do
not think I was frightened, not because of any
precocity of courage, but because of a wild ex-
citement that filled me. I half leaned upon the
knee of my sister. She says she was conscious
of no pain, she felt no sudden pang, but some-
thing warm seemed running down her side,
and, looking down, she saw an arrow which
had pierced her flesh and protruded its flinty

A CHILD'S JOURNEY.

head from the wound. "Mother," she exclaim-
ed, "I am shot," and fainted. My mother, the
woman whose spirit never failed her in this or
the dreadful trials which succeeded this disas-
trous fight, put forth her hand and drew the ar-
row backward through the wound. It was
while thus supporting the head of the girl she
supposed dying, it somehow became known to
her that her husband was lying quite dead and
filled with arrows under the great cottonwood
tree round which the camp was made. It was
but a few moments more till one of the men
spoke from the front of the wagon. Said he :

"Our ammunition is giving out, and we do
not know but it may come to a hand-to-hand
fight. Get out the knives you have in the bed
of the wagon."

Through the backward march which followed
it was ever the women who rose superior to suf-
fering and to danger. The men lost courage,
hope, and spirit, but the women never. A few
moments after the demand for the knives, a
Methodist preacher, who had seized my father's
rifle, aimed at the chief with a dinner-bell de-
pending from his belt, and saw him fall. In
five minutes not an Indian was to be seen, the
living dragging with them the dead as they
went. In the meantime, under cover of the
fight, our great herd of cattle had been made to
swim the river, and were safely corraled in the
Mojave villages.

Then began a weary tramp backward to Al-
buquerque, over mountain, desert, and plain,
every step of which for hundreds of miles we
felt was watched from every bush and point.
The few cattle remaining to us were those too
feeble from the effects of alkali to swim the
river, our food was insufficient, we could not
find water, our progress was miserably slow.
Oh, the agony of those days as they must have
been to my mother, just widowed, with her lit-
tle ones looking to her for care and comfort !
Reader, is it any wonder that memory clings to
the subject so faithfully, or that the bark of the
wolf and the wild whoop of the Indian that start-
led the child still linger in the ear of the woman?

I remember a strange pit, like a huge, round
pot let into the earth, and they called it Jacob's
Well. Its sides were so steep as almost to for-
bid descent, but the thirsty cattle burst bounds
and plunged down toward the pool of water at
the bottom. It was a dark, still, mysterious
pool, filled with a greenish -black water, in
which swam eyeless fish with legs like frogs.
Some one said it was bottomless. Bottomless?
I wondered at the idea, and tried to grasp it as
I now clutch desperately at the idea of eternity,
and still at this day I shake my head at both,
for I can compass neither. Trees of a delight-

ful verdure grew in the pit, and they were cool
and fresh — cool and fresh and beautiful enough
to quench the thirst of a sight parched with
heat and glare and sand and mirage and the
fever of disturbed sleep. Well, well ! Had the
Bible come into Arizona, and was this really
that well of old Jacob, of whom I had heard on
Sundays as a very mythical personage who
cheated his brother and afterward had a gray
beard?

And then, whether near or far from this halt-
ing place my memory fails to tell, we drew to-
ward a great pile, with angles and curves and
overhanging cliffs threatening destruction ; and
this was Inscription Rock, a quaint and curious
and marvelous mass, towering from the plain
into the sky. The stone was grained like sand,
and so soft that a knife -blade would easily cut
into it. It was covered with names and rude
carvings, some put so high up I wondered how
a hand ever could have reached them. It was
here I first learned the word hieroglyphics and
heard mention of Montezuma. They said some
of the carvings were hieroglyphics, and that
perhaps — a very vague perhaps — the old ruins
built on the top of Inscription Rock might be
the remains of a fortification of Montezuma's
time.

We were encamped at the Warm Springs, a
little way out upon the hillside from Socorro.
The water gushed, blood warm or a little more,
from a rock in the hill, springing, quite a stream,
from the fissure that made two parts of the rock.
It had hollowed out a basin for itself where it
fell, and this it filled like a bowl with warm wa-
ter, so clear, so very clear, that you could count
all the legs on the little black bugs moving slug-
gishly about on the rocks two or three feet deep.
To this basin flocked the women of Socorro
when infrequent wash-day came — flocked bare-
footed, and with the bundles of clothes upon
their heads. They wore a skirt and a chemise,
and this latter, as if by design, slipped contin-
ually from their shoulders. Child as I was, I
wondered at the freedom of their smiles and
glances, while I was fascinated by the little
trickles of laugh that bubbled every moment
from their lips, and the chant of words which
seemed like rhythm as they talked. They let
down their bundles, and washed their clothes
upon the stones as the Zuni women ground the
corn, slapping them and pounding them often
with soap-root, which obediently gave out lath-
er. And then, while they caressed and encour-
aged me, and passed me round, it was, "Oh,
the little child!" and "Ah, the poor little girl,
out from the midst of the Indians!" and "See
the little one!" while, half bashful and half
charmed, I drew away, and at the same time

THE CALIFORN1AN.

yielded. When the washing was done and
spread to dry, then into the basin they sprung
and laughed and splashed and shouted, or swam
as lazily and sluggishly about as the little black
bugs below.

After that there was more danger, andjhere
was the Apache country. I well remember the

shudder at Apache Pass, and the visit which
Cochise, the famous chief, paid to our lonely
wagon. But the hard balance of suffering was
over, and finally, when the rolling hills were
green with spring, our tired eyes greeted Los
Angeles, that fairest city of the south.

KATE HEATH.

THE DECAY OF EARNESTNESS.

Every animal, when not frightened, shows in
its own way a certain quiet self-complacency, a
confidence in the supreme worth of its individ-
ual existence, an exalted egotism, which is often
not a little amusing if we reflect on the short-
ness, the insignificance, and the misery of most
creatures' lives. This animal self-complacency
characterizes, also, as we know, all naturally-
minded men. We know, too, that most men are
nearly as much in error as the beasts, in the
degree of importance that they attach to their
lives. But what I have just now most in mind
is that the same kind of blunder is frequently
found in the judgment that any one age passes
upon itself and its own work. Every active
period of history thinks its activity of prodig-
ious importance, and its advance beyond its
predecessors very admirable. So the eight-
eenth century thought that the English poetry
of past times had been far surpassed in form
and in matter by the poetry of the age of Dry-
den and of Pope. Long since the blindness of
the eighteenth century upon this point has been
fully exposed. The Neoplatonic philosophy,
the Crusades, the First French Empire, are
familiar instances from the multitude of cases
where men utterly failed to perform the perma-
nent work which they were very earnestly try-
ing to do, and where they were, at most, doing
for the world that which they least of all wished
or expected to do. Like individuals, then, whole
eras of history go by, sublimely confident in their
own significance, yet often unable to make their
claims even interesting in the sight of posterity.

The same lesson may be drawn both here
and in the case of individuals. The man is
vain ; so is the age. The man ought to correct
his vanity first by negative -criticism; so ought
the time. But the disillusioning process is a
cruel one in both cases. It is hard for the man
to bear the thought that, perhaps, after all, he
is a useless enthusiast. So it is hard for an age
to bear the thought that its dearest worship may
be only idolatry, and its best work only a fight-

ing of shadows. But for both the lesson is the
same. Let them find some higher aim than this
merely natural one of self-satisfaction. Let their
work be done, not that it may seem grand to
them alone, but so that it must have an element
of grandeur in it, whatever be the success of its
particular purposes. Grandeur does not depend
upon success alone, nor need illusions always
be devoid of a higher truth. The problem is to
find out what is the right spirit, and to work in
that. If the matter of the work is bad, that
must perish, but the spirit need not.

Now, in our age we are especially engaged
upon certain problems of thought. We discuss
the origin of the present forms of things in the
physical and in the moral universe. Evolution
is our watchword ; "everything grew," is the in-
terpretation. Our method of inquiry is the his-
torical. We want to see how, out of certain
simple elements, the most complex structures
about us were built up. Now, in the enormous
thought-activity thus involved, two things espe-
cially strike one who pauses to watch. The first
is, that in studying Evolution men have come to
neglect other important matters that used to be
a good deal talked about. The true end of life,
the nature and grounds of human certitude, the
problems of Goethe's Faust and of Kant's Crit-
ique— these disappear from the view of many
representative men. The age finds room to talk
about these things, but not to enter upon them
with a whole-souled enthusiasm. Yet these are
eternally valuable matters of thought. The age
for which they are not in the very front rank of
problems is a one-sided age, destined to be se-
verely criticised within a century. The other
fact that strikes us in this age is that the result
of our one-sidedness is an unhappy division,
productive of no little misery, between the de-
mands of modern thought and the demands of
the whole indivisible nature of man. The eth-
ical finds not enough room in the philosophy ot
the time. The world is studied, but not the act-
ive human will, without whose interference the

THE DECA Y OF EARNESTNESS.

world is wholly void of human significance. The
matter of thinking overwhelms us ; we forget to
study the form, and so we accept, with a blank
wonder, the results of our thinking as if they
were self -existent entities that had walked into
our souls of themselves. For example, we make
molecules by reasoning about facts of sensation,
and by grouping these facts in the simplest and
easiest fashion possible ; then we fall into a fear
lest the molecules have, after all, made us, and
we write countless volumes on a stupid theme
called materialism. This unreflective fashion
of regarding the products of our thought as the
conditions and source of our thought, is largely
responsible for the strife between the ethical and
the scientific tendencies of the time. The scien-
tific tendency stops in one direction at a certain
point, content with having made a theory of ev-
olution, and fearing, or, at any rate, neglecting,
any further analysis of fundamental ideas. The
ethical tendency, on the other hand, rests on a
rooted feeling that, after all, conscious life is of
more worth than anything else in the universe.
But this is, nowadays, commonly a mere feeling,
which, finding nothing to justify it in current
scientific opinion, becomes morose, and results
in books against science. The books are wrong,
but the feeling, when not morose, is right. The
world is of importance only because of the con-
scious life in it, and the Evolution theory is one-
sided because of the subordinate place it gives
to consciousness. But the cure is not in writ-
ing books against science, but solely in such a
broad philosophy as shall correct the narrow-
ness of the day, and bring back to the first rank
of interest once more the problems of Goethe's
Faust and of Kant's Critique. We want not less
talk about evolution, but more study of human
life and destiny, of the nature of men's thought,
and the true goal of men's actions. Send us
the thinker that can show us just what in life is
most worthy of our toil, just what makes men's
destiny more than poor and comic, just what is
the ideal that we ought to serve ; let such a
thinker point out to us plainly that ideal, and
then say, in a voice that we must hear, "Work,
work for that; it is the highest" — then such a
thinker will have saved our age from one-side-
edness, and have given it eternal significance.
Now, to talk about those problems of thought
which concern the destiny, the significance, and
the conduct of human life, is to talk about what
I have termed "the ethical aspect of thought."
Some study we must give to these things if we
are not to remain, once for all, hopelessly one-
sided.

In looking for the view of the world which
shall restore unity to our divided age, we must
first not forget the fact that very lately all these

now neglected matters have been much talked
about. It is the theory of Evolution that, with
its magnificent triumphs, its wonderful ingenu-
ity and insight, has put them out of sight. Only
within twenty years has there been a general
inattention to the study of the purposes and
the hopes of human life — a study that, embod-
ied in German Idealism, or in American Tran-
scendentalism, in Goethe, in Schiller, in Fichte,
in Wordsworth, in Shelley, in Carlyle, in Emer-
son, had been filling men's thoughts since the
outset of the great Revolution. But since the
end of the period referred to our knowledge of
the origin of the forms of life has driven from
popular thought the matters of the worth and
of the conduct of life, so that one might grow
up nowadays well taught in the learning of the
age, and when asked, "Hast thou as yet receiv-
ed into thy heart any Ideal?" might respond
very truthfully, "I have not heard so much as
whether there be any Ideal."

Yet, I repeat, the fault in our time is negative
rather than positive. We have to enlarge, not
to condemn. Evolution is a great truth, but it
is not all truth. We need more, not less, of
science. We need a more thorough -going, a
more searching — yes, a more critical and skep-
tical— thought than any now current. For cur-
rent thought is, in fact, naif and dogmatic, ac-
cepting without criticism a whole army of ideas
because they happen to be useful as bases for
scientific work. We need, then, in the inter-
ests of higher thought, an addition to our pres-
ent philosophy — an addition that makes us.e of
the neglected thought of the last three genera-
tions. But, as preliminary to all this, it becomes
us to inquire : Why was modern thought so
suddenly turned from the contemplation of the
ethical aspect of reality to this present absorb-
ing study of the material side of the world?
How came we to break with Transcendental-
ism, and to begin this search after the laws of
the redistribution of matter and of force? To
this question I want to devote the rest of the
present study; for just here is the whole prob-
lem in a nut -shell. Transcendentalism, the
distinctly ethical thought-movement of the cent-
ury, failed to keep a strong hold on the life of
the century. Why? In the answer to this
question lies at once the relative justification,
and at the same time the understanding, of the
incompleteness cf our present mode of thinking.

By Transcendentalism, I mean a movement
that began in Germany in the last thirty years
of the eighteenth centuiy, and that afterward
spread, in one form or another, all over Europe,
and even into our own country — a movement
that answered in the moral and mental world
to the French Revolution in the political world.

THE CAL1FORNIAN.

Everywhere this movement expressed, through
a multitude of forms, a single great idea : the
idea that in the free growth and expression of
the highest and strongest emotions of the civ-
ilized man might be found the true solution of
the problem of life. Herein was embodied a
reaction against the characteristic notions of
the eighteenth century. In the conventional,
in submission to the external forms of govern-
ment, religion, and society, joined with a total
indifference to the spiritual, and with a general
tendency to free but shallow speculation, the
average popular thought of the last century had
sought to attain repose rather^than perfection.
The great thinkers rose far above this level;
but, on the whole, we look to the age of the
rationalists rather for ingenuity than for pro-
fundity, rather for good sense than for grand
ideas. The prophetic, the emotional, the sub-
lime, are absent from the typical eighteenth
century mind-life. Instead, we find cultivation,
criticism, skepticism, and at times, as a sort of
relief, a mild sentimentality. The Transcend-
ental movement expressed a rebound from this
state of things. With the so-called Storm and
Stress Period of German literature the protest
against conventionality and in favor of a higher
life began. Love, enthusiasm, devotion, the af-
fection for humanity, the search after the ideal,
the faith in a spiritual life — these became ob-
jects of the first interest. A grand new era of
history seemed opening. Men felt themselves
on the verge of great discoveries. The highest
hopes were formed. A movement was begun
that lasted through three generations, and far
into a fourth. It was, to be sure, in nature a
young men's movement ; but as the men of one
generation lost their early enthusiasm, others
arose to follow in their footsteps — blundering-
ly, perhaps, but earnestly. When Goethe had
outgrown his youthful extravagances, behold
there were the young Romanticists to under-
take the old work once more. When they crys-
tallized with time, and lost hold on the German
national life, there came Heine and the Young
Germany to pursue with new vigor the old path.
In England, Wordsworth grows very sober
with age, when there come Byron and Shelley ;
Coleridge fails, and Carlyle is sent; Shelley
and Byron pass away, but Tennyson arises.
And with us in America Emerson and his help-
ers renew the spirit of a half century before
their time. This movement now seems a thing
of the past. There is no Emerson among the
younger men, no Tennyson among the new
school of poets, no Heine in Germany — much
less, then, a Fichte or a Schiller. Not merely
is genius lacking, but the general public inter-
est, the soil from which a genius draws nour-

ishment, is unfavorable. The literary taste of
the age is represented by George Eliot's later
novels, where everything is made subordinate
to analysis, by the poetry of several skillful
masters of melody, by the cold critical work
of the authors of the series on "English Men
of Letters." Men of wonderful power there are
among our writers — men like William Morris
in poetry, or Mathew Arnold in both criticism
and poetry ; but their work is chiefly esoteric,
appealing to a limited class. Widely popular
writers we have upon many subjects ; but they
are either great men of abstract thought, like
Spencer and Huxley ; or else, alas ! mere super-
ficial scribblers like Mr. Mallock, or rhetori-
cians like Rev. Joseph Cook. The moral lead-
er, the seer, the man to awaken deep interest
in human life as human life, no longer belongs
to the active soldiers of the army of to-day;
and, what is worse, the public mind no longer
inquires after such a leader. There must sure-
ly be a cause for this state of public sentiment.
Neglect of such vital questions must have
sprung from some error in their treatment.
Let us look in history for that error.

The Storm and Stress Period in Germany be-
gan with the simplest and most unaffected de-
sire possible to get back from conventionality
and from shallow thought to the purity and
richness of natural emotion. There was at first
no set philosophy or creed about the universe
common to those engaged in the movement.
The young poets worshiped genius, and de-
sired to feel intensely and to express emotion
worthily. To this end they discarded the tra-
ditions as to form which they found embodied
in French poetry and in learned text -books.
Lessing had furnished them critical authority.
He had shown the need of appealing to Nature
for instruction, both in the matter and in the
manner of poetry. Popular ballads suggested
to some of the young school their models.
Their own overflowing hearts, their warm, ideal
friendships with one another, their passion for
freedom, their full personal experiences, gave
them material. Together they broke down con-
ventions, and opened a new era in literary life,
as the French Revolution, twenty years later,
did in national life. Every one knows that
Goethe's famous Werther is the result of this
time of ferment. Now, if one reads Werther
attentively, and with an effort (for it needs an
effort) to sympathize with the mood that pro-
duced and enjoyed it, one will see in it the
characteristic idea that the aim of life is to have
as remarkable and exalted emotional experi-
ences as possible, and those of a purely per-
sonal character; that is, not the emotion that
men feel in common when they engage in great

THE DECAY OF EARNESTNESS.

causes, not the devotion to sublime impersonal
objects, not surrender to unworldly ideals, but
simply the overwhelming sense of the magni-
tude and worth of one's own loves and longings,
of one's own precious soul -experiences — this,
and not the other, is to be sought. Werther
cannot resist the fate that drives him to load his
heart down with emotion until it breaks. He
feels how far asunder from the rest of mankind
all this drives him. But he insists upon despis-
ing mankind, and upon reveling in the danger-
ous wealth of his inspiration. Now, surely such
a state of mind as this must injure men if they
remain long in it. Men need work in life, and
so long as they undertake to dig into their own
bowels for the wonderful inner experiences that
they may find by digging, so long must their
lives be bad dreams. The purpose of these
young men was the highest, but only those of
them who, following this purpose, passed far
beyond the simplicity of their youth, did work
of lasting merit. The others stayed in a state
of passionate formlessness, or died early. The
result of remaining long in this region, where
nothing was of worth but a violent emotion or
an incredible deed, one sees in such a man as
Klinger, who lived long enough to reap what he
had sown, but did not progress sufficiently to
succeed in sowing anything but the wind. I
remember once spending an idle hour on one of
his later romances, written years after the time
of Storm and Stress had passed by, which well
expresses the state of mind, the sort of katzen-
jammer, resulting from a long life of literary
dissipation. It is Klinger's Faustus — the same
subject as Goethe's masterpiece, but how differ-
ently treated! Faustus is a man desperately
anxious to act. He wants to reform the world,
to be sure, but that only by the way. His main
object is to satisfy a vague, restless craving for
tremendous excitement. The contract with the
devil once made, he plunges into a course of
reckless adventure. Where he undertakes to
do good he only makes bad worse. Admirable
about him is merely the magnitude of his proj-
ects, the vigor of his actions, the desperate cour-
age wherewith he defies the universe. Brought
to hell at last, he ends his career by cursing all
things that are with such fearless and shocking'
plainness of speech that the devils themselves
are horrified. Satan has to invent a new place
of torment for him. He is banished, if I re-
member rightly, into horrible darkness, where
he is to pass eternity perfectly alone. Thus ter-
ribly the poet expresses the despair in which
ends for him, as for all, this self - adoration of
the man whose highest object is violent emo-
tional experiences, enjoyed merely because they
are his own, not because by having them one

VOL. III.- a.

serves the Ideal. As a mere beginning, then,
the Storm and Stress Period expressed a great
awakening of the world to new life. But an
abiding place in this state of mind there was
none. What then followed?

The two masters of German literature who
passed through and rose above this period of
beginnings, and created the great works of the
classical period, were Goethe and Schiller. As
poets, we are not now specially concerned with
them. As moral teachers, what have they to
tell us about the conduct and the worth of life?
The answer is, they bear not altogether the
same message. There is a striking contrast,
well recognized by themselves and by all subse-
quent critics, between their views of life. Both
aim at the highest, but seek in different paths.
Goethe's mature ideal seems to be a man of
finely appreciative powers, who follows his life-
calling quietly and with such diligence as to gain
for himself independence and leisure, who so
cultivates his mind that it is open to receive all
noble impressions, and who then waits with a
sublime resignation, gained through years of
self-discipline, for such experiences of what is
grand in life and in the universe as the Spirit
of Nature sees fit to grant to him. Wilhelm
Meister, who works eagerly for success in a di-
rection where success is impossible, and who
afterward finds bliss where he least expected
to find it, seems to teach this lesson. Faust, at
first eagerly demanding indefinite breadth and
grandeur of life, and then coming to see what
the limitations of human nature are, "that to
man nothing perfect is given," and so at last
finding the highest good of life in the thought
that he and posterity must daily earn anew free-
dom, never be done with progressing, seems to
illustrate the same thought. Do not go beyond
or behind Nature, Goethe always teaches. Live
submissively the highest that it is given you to
live, and neither cease quietly working, nor de-
spair, nor rebel, but be open to every new and
worthy experienced For Goethe this was a per-
fect solution of the problem of life. He needed
no fixed system of dogmas to content him. In
the divine serenity of one of the most perfect
of minds, Goethe put in practice this maxim :
Live thy life out to the full, earnestly but sub-
missively, demanding what attainment thy nat-
ure makes possible, but not pining for more. )

Now, this of course is a selfish maxim. If
the highest life is to be unselfish, Goethe can-
not have given us the final solution to the prob-
lem. His selfishness was not of a low order.
It was like the selfishness in the face of the
Apollo Belvedere, the simple consciousness of
vast personal worth. But it was selfishness for
all that. We see how it grew for him out of his

THE CALIFORNIAN.

early enthusiasm. The Storm and Stress Period
had been full of the thought that there is some-
thing grand in the emotional nature of man,
and that this something must be cultivated.
Now, Goethe, absorbed in the faith of the time —
himself, in fact, its high priest — learned after
a while that all these much sought treasures of
emotion were there already, in his own being,
and that they needed no long search, no storm-
ing at all. He had but to be still and watch
them. He needed no anxious brooding to find
ideals ; he went about quietly, meeting the ideal
everywhere. The object of search thus attained,
in so far as any mortal could attain it, Goethe
the poet was in perfect harmony with the Goethe
of practical life ; and so was formed the creed
of the greatest man of the century. But it was
a creed of little more than personal significance.
For us the grand example remains, but the at-
tainment of like perfection is impossible, and
we must look for another rule of living. For
those sensitive and earnest people who learn,
as many learn while yet mere school -boys or
school -girls, that there is a great wealth of
splendid emotional life, of affection and aspira-
tion and devotion, shut up in their own hearts ;
for those who, feeling this, want to develop this
inner nature, to enjoy these high gifts, to order
their lives accordingly, to avoid shams and
shows, and to possess the real light of life — for
such natural Transcendentalists, what shall
Goethe's precept avail? Alas ! their little lives
are not Olympian, like his. They cannot meet
the Ideal everywhere. Poetry does not come
to express their every feeling. No Grand Duke
calls them to his court. No hosts of followers
worship them. Of all this they are not worthy.
Yet they ought to find some path, be it never
so steep a one, to a truly higher life. Resigna-
tion may be the best mood, but Goethe's reason
for resignation such souls have not.

Perhaps Schiller's creed may have more
meaning for men in general. In fact, Schiller,
though no common man, had much more in
him that common men may, without trouble,
appreciate. His origin was humble, and the
way up steep and rough. In his earlier writ-
ings the Storm and Stress tendency takes a
simpler and cruder form than that of Werther.
What Schiller accomplished was for along time
the result of very hard work, done in the midst
of great doubt and perplexity. Schiller's ideal
is, therefore, to use his own figure, the labori-
ous, oppressed, and finally victorious Hercules
— i. e.j the man who fears no toil in the service
of the highest, who knows that there is some-
thing of the divine in him, who restlessly strives
to fulfill his destiny, and who at last ascends to
the sight and knowledge of the truly perfect. \

Schiller's maxim therefore is : Toil ceaselessly
to give thy natural powers their full develop-
ment, knowing that nothing is worth having but
a full consciousness of all that thou hast of good,
now latent and unknown within thee. Resigna-
tion, therefore, though it is the title of one of
Schiller's poems, is never his normal active
mood. He retains to the end a good deal of
the old Storm and Stress. He is always a sen-
timental poet, to use the epithet in his own
sense; that is, he is always toiling for the ideal,
never quite sure that he is possessed of it. He
dreams sometimes that he soon will know the
perfect state of mind; but he never does at-
tain, nor does he seem, like Goethe, content
with, the eternal progress. There is an under-
current of complaint and despair in Schiller,
which only the splendid enthusiasm of the man
keeps, for the most part, out of sight. Some of
his poems are largely under its influence.

Now, this creed, in so far as it is earnest and
full of faith in the ideal, appeals very much more
immediately than does Goethe's creed to the
average sensitive mind. Given a soul that is
awake to the higher emotions, and if you tell
such a one to work earnestly and without rest to
develop this better self, you will help him more
than if you bid him contemplate the grand at-
tainment of a Goethe, and be resigned to his own
experiences as Goethe was to his. For most of
us the higher life is to be gained only through
weary labor, if at all. But what seems to be
lacking in Schiller's creed is a sufficiently con-
crete definition of the ideal that he seeks. Any
attentive reader of Faust feels strongly, if vague-
ly, what it is that Faust is looking for. But one
may read Schiller's " Das Ideal und das Leben"
a good many times without really seeing what
it is that the poor Hercules, or his earthy rep-
resentative, is seeking. Schiller is no doubt, on
the whole, the simpler poet, yet I must say that
if I wanted to give any one his first idea of what
perfection of mind and character is most worthy
of search, I should send such a one to Goethe
rather than to Schiller. Schiller talks nobly
about the way to perfection, but he defines per-
fection quite abstractly. Goethe is not very
practical in his directions about the road, but
surely no higher or clearer ideals of what is good
in emotion and action can be put into our minds
than those he suggests in almost any passage
you please, if he is in a serious mood, and is
talking about good and evil at all.

But neither of the classical poets satisfied his
readers merely as a moral teacher. As poets,
they remain what they always seemed — classics,
indeed; but as thinkers they did little more
than state a problem. Here is a higher life,
and they tell us about it. But wherein consists

THE DEC A Y OF EARNESTNESS.

its significance, how it is to be preached to the
race, how sought by each one of us — these ques-
tions remain still open.

And open they are, the constant theme for
eager discussion and for song all through the
early part of the nineteenth century. Close
upon the classical period followed the German
Romantic school. Young men again, full of
earnestness and of glorious experience ! On
they come, confident that they at least are called
to be apostles, determined to reform life and
poetry — the one through the other. Surely they
will solve the problem, and tell us how to culti-
vate this all important higher nature. Fichte,
the great idealist, whose words set men's hearts
afire, or else, alas ! make men laugh at him ;
young Friedrich Schlegel, versatile, liberal in
conduct even beyond the bounds that may not
safely be passed, bold in spirit even to insolence ;
the wonderful Novalis, so profound, and yet so
unaffected and child-like, so tender in emotion
and yet so daring in speculation ; Schelling, full
of vast philosophic projects; Tieck, skillful
weaver of romantic fancies; Schleiermacher,
gifted theologian and yet disciple of Spinoza;
surely, these are the men to complete the work
that will be left unfinished when Schiller dies
and Goethe grows older. So at least they thought
and their friends. Never were young men more
confident ; and yet never did learned and really
talented men, to the most of whom was granted
long life with vigor, more completely fail to ac-
complish anything of permanent value in the
direction of their early efforts. As mature men,
some of them were very influential and useful,
but not in the way in which they first sought to
be useful. There is to my mind a great and sad
fascination in studying the lives and thoughts
of this school, in whose fate seems to be exem-
plified the tragedy of our century. Such aspira-
tions, such talents, and such a failure ! Frag-
ments of inspired verse and prose, splendid
plans, earnest private letters to friends, prophetic
visions, and nothing more of enduring worth.
Further and further goes the movement, in its
worship of the emotional, away from the actual
needs of human life. Dramatic art,' the test of
the poet that has a deep insight into the prob-
lems of our nature, is tried, with almost com-
plete failure. The greatest dramatic poet of
the new era, one that, if he had Jived, might
have rivaled Schiller, was Heinrich von Kleist,
author of the Prinz von Hamburg. Driven to
despair by unsolved problems and by loneliness,
this poet shot himself before his life-work was
more than fairly begun. There remain a few
dramas, hardly finished, a few powerful tales,
and a bundle of fragments to tell us what he
was. His fate is typical of the work of the

younger school between the years 1805 and
1815. There was a keen sense of the worth of
emotional experience, and an inability to come
into unity with one's aspirations. Life and
poetry, as the critics have it, were at variance.

Now, in all this, these men were not merely
fighting shadows. What they sought to do is
eternally valuable. They felt, and felt nobly,
as all generous-minded, warm-hearted youths
and maidens at some time do feel. They were
not looking for fame alone ; they wanted to be
and to produce the highest that mortals may.
It is a pity that we have not just now more like
them. Yet their efforts failed. What problems
Goethe and Schiller, men of genius and of good
fortune, had solved for themselves alone, men
of lesser genius or of less happy lives could
only puzzle over. The poetry of the next fol-
lowing age is largely the poetry of melancholy.
The emotional movement spread all over Eu-
rope ; men everywhere strove to make life richer
and worthier ; and most men grew sad at their
little success. Alfred de Musset, in a well known
book, has told in the gloomiest strain the story
of the unrest, the despair, the impotency of the
youth of the Restoration.

Wordsworth and Shelley represent in very
much contrasted ways the efforts of English
poets to carry on the work of Transcendental-
ism, and these men succeeded, in this respect,
better than their fellows. Wordsworth is full
of a sense of the deep meaning of little things
and of the most common life. Healthy men,
that work like heroes, that have lungs full of
mountain air, and that yet retain the simplicity
of shepherd life, or children, whose eyes and
words teach purity and depth of feeling, are to
him the most direct suggestions of the ideal.
Life is, for Wordsworth, everywhere an effort to
be at once simple and full of meaning; in har-
mony with nature, and yet not barbarous. But
Wordsworth, if he has very much to teach us,
seems to lack the persuasive enthusiasm of the
poetic leader of men. At all events, his appeal
has reached, sojfar, only a class. He can be
all in all to them, his followers, but he did not
reform the world. Shelley, is, perhaps, the one
of all English poets in this century to whom
was given the purest ideal delight in the higher
affections. If you want to be eager to act out
the best that is in you, read Shelley. If you
want to cultivate a sense for the best in the feel-
ings of all human hearts, read Shelley. He has
taught very many to long for a worthy life and
for purity of spirit. But alas ! Shelley, again,
knows not how to teach the way to the acquire-
ment of the end that he so enthusiastically de-
scribes. If you can feel with him, he does you
you good. If you fail to understand him, he is

THE CALIFORNIAN.

no systematic teacher. At best, he will arouse
a longing. He can never wholly satisfy it.
Shelley wanted to be no mere writer. He had
in him a desire to reform the world. But when
he speaks of reform one sees how vague an idea
he had of the means. Prometheus, the Titan,
who represents in Shelley's poem oppressed hu-
manity, is bound on the mountain. The poem
is to tell us of his deliverance. But how is this
accomplished? Why, simply when a certain
fated hour comes, foreordained, but by nobody
in particular, up comes Demogorgon, the spirit
of eternity, stalks before the throne of Jupiter,
the tyrant, and orders him him out into the
abyss ; and thereupon Prometheus is unchain-
ed, and the earth is happy. Why did not all
this happen before? Apparently because De-
mogorgon did not sooner leave the under- world.
What a motive is this for an allegoric account
of the deliverance of humanity ! Mere accident
rules everything, and yet apparently there is a
coming triumph to work for. The poet of
lofty emotions is but an eager child when he is
to advise us to act.

The melancholy side of the literary era that
extends from 1815 to 1840 is represented espe-
cially by two poets, Byron and Heine. Both
treat the same great problem, What is this life,
and what in it is of most worth? Both recog-
nize the need there is for something more than
mere existence. Both know the value of emo-
tion, and both would wish to lead men to an
understanding of this value, if only they thought
that men could be lead. Despairing themselves
of ever attaining an ideal peace of mind, they
give themselver over to melancholy. Despair-
ing of raising men even to their own level, they
become scornful, and spend far too much time
in merely negative criticism. The contrast be-
tween them is not a little instructive. Byron is
too often viewed by superficial readers merely
in the light of his early sentimental poems.
Those, for our present purpose, may be disre-
garded. It is the Byron of Manfred and Cain
that I now have in mind. As for Heine, Mat-
thew Arnold long since said the highest in praise
of his ethical significance that we may dare to
say. Surely both men have great defects. They
are one-sided, and often insincere. But they
are children of the ideal. Byron has, I think,
the greater force of character, but the gift of
seeing well what is beautiful and pathetic in
life fell to the lot of Heine. The one is great
in spirit, the other in experience. Byron is, by
nature, combative, a hater of wrong, one often
searching for the highest truth ; but his experi-
ence is petty and heart- sickening, his real world
is miserably unworthy of his ideal world, and
he seems driven on into the darkness like his

own Cain and Manfred. Heine has more the
faculty of vision. The perfect delight in a mo-
ment of emotion is given to him as it has sel-
dom been given to any man since the unknown
makers of the popular ballads. Hence, his fre-
quent use of ballad forms and incidents. Sure-
ly, Byron could never have given us that picture
of Edith of the Swan's Neck searching for the
dead King Harold on the field of Hastings,
which Heine has painted in one of the ballads
of the Romancero. But, on the other hand,
Heine lacks the force to put into active life the
meaning and beauty that he can so well appre-
ciate. He sees in dreams, but he cannot create
in the world the ideal of perfection. So he is
bitter and despairing. He takes a cruel delight
in pointing out the shams of the actual world.
Naturally romantic, he attacks romantic ten-
dencies ever afresh with hate and scorn. In
brief, to live the higher life, and to teach others
to live it also, one would have to be heroic in
action, like Byron, and gifted with the power to
see, as Heine saw, what is precious, and, in all
its simplicity, noble, about human experience.
The union of Byron and Heine would have been
a new, and, I think, a higher, sort of Goethe.

Since these have passed away we have had
our Emerson, our Carlyle, our Tennyson. Upon
these men we cannot dwell now. I pass to the
result of the whole long struggle. Humanity
was seeking, in these its chosen representative
men, to attain to a fuller emotional life. A con-
flict resulted with the petty and ignoble in hu-
man nature, and with the dead resistance of
material forces. Men grew old and died in this
conflict, did wonderful things, and — did not
conquer. And now, at last, Europe gave up the
whole effort, and fell to thinking about physical
science and about great national movements.
The men of the last age are gone, or are fast
going, and we are left face to face with a dan-
gerous practical materialism. The time is one
of unrest, but not of great moral leaders. Ac-
tion is called for, and, vigorous as we are, spir-
itual activity is not one of the specialties of the
modern world.

So much, then, for the reasons why what I
have for brevity's sake called Transcendental-
ism lost its hold on the life of the century.
These reasons were briefly these: First, the
ideal sought by the men of the age of which we
have spoken was too selfish, not broad and hu-
man enough. Goethe might save himself, but
he could not teach us the road. Secondly, men
did not strive long and earnestly enough. Sure-
ly, if the problems of human conduct are to be
solved, if life is to be made full of emotion,
strong, heroic, and yet not cold, we must all
unite, men, women, and children, in the com-

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

mon cause of living ourselves as best we can,
and of helping others, by spoken and by writ-
ten word, to do the same. We lack persever-
ance and leaders. Thirdly, the splendid suc-
cesses of certain modern investigations have
led away men's minds from the study of the
conduct of life to a study of the evolution of
life. I respect the latter study, but I do not
believe it fills the place of the former. I wish
there were time in our hurried modern life for
both. I know there must be found time, and
that right quickly, for the study of the old prob-
lems of the Faust of Goethe.

With this conclusion, the present study ar-
rives at the goal set at the beginning. How we
are to renew these old discussions, what solu-
tion of them we are to hope for, whether we
shall ever finally solve them, what the true
ideal of life is — of all such matters I would not
presume to write further at this present. But
let us not forget that if our Evolution text-books
contain much of solid— yes, of inspiring — truth,
they do not contain all the knowledge that is
essential to a perfect life or to the needs of hu-

manity. A philosophy made possible by the
deliberate neglect of that thought -movement,
whose literary expression was the poetry of our
century, cannot itself be broad enough and
deep enough finally to do away with the needs
embodied in that thought-movement. Let one,
knowing this fact, be therefore earnest in the
search for whatever may make human life more
truly worth living. Let him read again, if he
has read before, or begin to read, if he has
never read, our Emerson, our Carlyle, our Ten-
nyson, or the men of years ago, who so aroused
the ardent souls of the best among our fathers.
Let him study Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Words-
worth, anything and everything that can arouse
in him a sense of our true spiritual needs. And
having read, let him work in the search after •
the ideal — work not for praise, but for the good
of his time.

And then, perhaps, some day a new and a
mightier Transcendental Movement may begin
— a great river, that shall not run to waste and
be lost in the deserts of sentimental melan-
choly. JOSIAH ROYCE.

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

CHAPTER X.

The plan adopted by Mrs. Howard withj-ef-
erence to the newspapers had due weight. It
is impossible to refrain from remarking in this
connection that, ordinarily, the power of a re-
porter is greatly underrated. He is looked
upon as a machine, for which his salary — gen-
erally very small — is the fuel for raising steam,
and the policy of his newspaper the length of
his stroke. As the quantity of fuel is generally
quite small, there is never a dangerous head of
steam, thus dispensing with the necessity for a
safety-valve. The machine runs steadily on
for years and years, and it is not long that a
vestige of the original varnish, and polish, and
finishing blue remains. It runs on and on, un-
til the parts are worn, and the joints are loose,
and the flues are choked with cinders and ashes.
When it is worn out at last, it becomes a poli-
tician.

But the reporter, although his policy is con-
trolled— or who, rather, has no policy of his
own — is nevertheless a quiet and dangerous
power. Sometimes he is human — more the
pity. In fact, if the fraud must be exposed, he
is generally human. Perhaps his peculiar train-

ing renders him comparatively free from preju-
dices, for his judgment must always be open,
while his heart must always be closed. He is
paid for his brain, and not for his sentiment.
As he is human — a disgraceful admission — he
is capable of feeling, which enters unconscious-
ly and conscientiously into all his work. His
policy having been outlined for him, depend-
ence is, to a certain extent, placed in him. His
judgment is supposed by his employer to be his
guide, and confidence is reposed in his judg-
ment; and it is never knowingly betrayed.
Though he may have sentiments of his own
that clash with the work in hand, he tears them
to shreds with perfect cheerfulness. He takes
a grim delight in trampling on them, and show-
ing to others how unnecessary and how wrong
they are. A man insults him, and yet he lauds
that man a hero. But the insult goes down
into his heart, and rankles there, to crop out
when least expected. He is a nomadic insect
— if such an expression be allowable — and what
he has no opportunity of writing for this paper,
he may for the next that employs him. The
reporter is a whole encyclopaedia of kindnesses
to be remembered and wrongs to be redressed.
There is no other man in society who is so

THE CALIFORNIA*!.

much flattered, and so often wounded, as he.
His mind is an arsenal of facts, and his heart
a magazine of memories. He has a thousand
ways of doing a thing, and he soon learns them
intuitively. This chapter is entirely too short
to give an adequate exposition of his tricks.
He is not feared as much as he might be, or
he would always, even for policy, be treated
with consideration. He is very much like a
camel.

Mrs. Howard grasped this idea at once, as
many women in the world have done. She did
not avoid interviews ; but while granting them,
and withholding all information, she threw her-
self into her natural surrounding circumstances,
and raised up an impassable barrier of her
woman's rights — rights that men do not have
to the same extent, and that are sacred and in-
violable. In the whole category of human
opinions, creeds, beliefs, and sentiments, there
is one thing sacred with a reporter — a woman's
wish. In the entire array of things animate
and inanimate, things created, things destroyed,
things beautiful, things repulsive, there is one
always sacred with the reporter — a woman.
But she must be a woman, and nothing else, in
order to lay claim to this great privilege. She
must not be a man, nor a devil, nor a simpleton,
nor a child, nor an animal ; but a woman. She
may, if she can, practice cunning and dissem-
bling deeper than the cool and close scrutiny
of a sharp-witted man — a man who believes
few things, and places not always implicit con-
fidence in the evidence of his own senses. But
it is dangerous ; for the man who listens, silent,
and does not question nor contradict, may ex-
pose the ruse in the morning, and make her
wish she had never been born.

Thus it had come about that Mrs. Howard
was not again branded as an accessory to the
murder. She was guarding her son's life, and
not the honor of her family. Under the influ-
ence of newspaper reports, and the better feel-
ing that followed the riot, her efforts were ap-
preciated, and her mother's heart respected.

The remarkable manner in which she had
rescued him from the mob, outwitting it and
Casserly, had reached the ears of the public.
Great excitement had followed this disclosure.
The Crane had disappeared with Howard, and
the butcher's cart was found that evening on
the road to Monterey. Doubtless the two men
had struck across the country to the Santa Cruz
Mountains, and lost themselves in the wilds of
that country.

The great mistake that Casserly made was
that he kept separate the three persons who
alone could have had any direct knowledge of
the tragedy. This was a natural error, and one

frequently fallen into by detectives. In by far
the majority of cases it is the better plan, as it
prevents a coincidence of manufactured testi-
mony ; but it also frequently happens that there
is a misunderstanding, and consequently a de-
sire to shield by saying nothing.

The funeral of the dead girl had taken place
before Casserly tracked Emily Randolph to
Santa Cruz. It was a strange affair. Kind
hands had placed the body tenderly in a coffin,
which was covered with flowers the rarest and
sweetest. Mrs. Howard, from her cell in the
third floor of the jail, had directed all the prep-
arations. As soon as it became known that
she was a member of the Presbyterian Church,
ladies of that society proffered their services.
There was little to be done, yet much was done.
At the request of Mrs. Howard, the minister of
the church readily concurring, the coffin was
taken into the church building, and the funeral
exercises held there. Such a crowd of people
had never before thronged a church in San
Jose*.

After the coffin had been placed at the foot
of the altar, Mrs. Howard entered, walking be-
tween Casserly and Judge Simon — for she was
a prisoner. She was dressed in plain black,
with no profusion of mourning apparel. It was
quite firmly that she walked up the aisle, with
her veil raised, that all might see her face.
Every eye was turned upon her. Many hearts
went out to her. This, then, was the woman of
such daring and cunning. This woman, with
soft step, with calm face, with eyes full of wom-
anly tenderness, with "grace and beauty of form
and face, was she who held the secret of the
crime, and who braved death to give her recre-
ant son his liberty ; they could hardly believe it.

A front pew had been reserved for them, and
in it the three seated themselves. But in all
that vast assemblage there was not a single
hand extended toward her; not a single word
uttered of condolence or sympathy. She felt a
great distance from them. They saw between
them and her a wide river of blood. There
was blood upon her name, and mayhap upon
her hands. The two bright hectic spots upon
her usually pale cheeks were smeared thereon
with blood. She was surrounded with an at-
mosphere teeming with the odor of blood. If
she had not herself committed the deed, she
had looked upon it; had seen death enter av
young breast, boring a ghastly hole, and letting
the blood flow ; carried that crime in her heart,
the red blood of it mingling with that which
coursed through her veins. Among all the peo-
ple in that house, there could not have been a
lack of that sympathy that would lead to an
avowal of it under more favorable conditions.

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

There was much of it — there always is under
such circumstances; but at that moment Mrs.
Howard was extremely unfashionable, and to
have taken her hand would have been desper-
ately irregular.

Withal, it was a touching funeral service.
The sermon was short, but affecting. There
was nothing, said the minister, upon which a
discourse could be built. There was an entire
lack of opportunity to draw a moral, for the
girl's history was unknown. Had she traveled
the darker ways of life, and found only selfish-
ness— sordid, miserable selfishness — that sacri-
ficed her without a pang? — that gave her over to
the tomb when it had done with her, to be de-
voured by worms, as all corruption is? — and that
did this foully, and with strong, murderous
hands? If so, find this selfishness, Humanity.
Find this thing that lies at the foundation of
every evil, of every crime. Let not a stone re-
main unturned. Loose every bloodhound of
divine justice, and let him scent this blood, and
track this fleeing criminal, this revolting selfish-
ness, to death. Hunt it down, Humanity. Pur-
sue it to the ends of the earth. And when you
find it, let your bloodhounds tear out its vitals,
and feast upon them, like famished vampires.
For it is Death, and Death must be killed. It
is Crime, and Crime must be strangled.

She was dead. She lay there, he said, in all
the calm beauty of death. Ah, the tenderness
of death ! Ah, the sadness of death ! Ah, the
desolation that it brings, the hearts that it leaves
empty ! It is something that steals, and does
not repay the theft ; that breaks, and tears, and
lacerates; that comes unbidden, and snatches
away the dearest and best, so ruthlessly, so cru-
elly ! Is there a whisper of calumny? Let it be
hushed. Is there a finger of scorn? Let it be
pointed inward. For this is death, and death
is awful; death is avenging; death is the judg-
ment of God. Rather let it be a reminder, sad
though it is, and bitter though it maybe, of the
cup that all must drink. But far better such a
death as this than that other death, which leaves
not a stamp of beauty ; which lays up no tender
memories, but which brings only ashes, and
dust, and broken hearts ; and that, all in gloom
and darkness, threads in pain and anguish the
dreary mazes of eternity forever and forever.

Thus did the minister speak. Some persons
shed tears, and others admired his eloquence,
but all were impressed ; and when he conclud-
ed, a painful, empty silence remained. His
words had died ; she had died, and they would
be buried with her.

There was more than one breast that yielded
up its dead that day. There were shrouded
onus that lay upon the benches, and in the

aisles, and in white rows behind the chancel-
rail. On some of the pallid faces of those that
memory resurrected were smiles of peace and
undying faith; on other faces, lines of pain,
and suffering, and cruelty, and desertion; on
others, tears of shame and sorrow ; and on many
— very many — were hard and bitter looks of
accusation and revenge unsatisfied.

As the bell tolled, they took life, and held a
ghostly revelry, and increased in numbers so
rapidly that they filled the house to overflow-
ing, darting unexpected from unseen sources,
and crowding to suffocation. They perched
upon the organ, and flitted lightly over the altar,
some making strange grimaces, and shaking
the finger in solemn warning. Then all was
bustle and confusion, and they chased one an-
other madly out upon the street, singing, and
praying, and exhorting, and sighing, and curs-
ing— out into the bright June sunshine, where
the heat changed them into vapor, and they
ascended to heaven.

Then came the next scene in this painful
drama. By common consent, the crowd upon
the right moved forward to view the body, while
those on the left passed out, and entered again
at the right, those upon the right passing out at
the left. Thus a continuous stream was formed,
the crowd being greatly augmented by many
in the street who had been unable to gain ad-
mittance.

As they pass, and gaze upon the beautiful,
upturned face, there are varying expressions of
countenance, and different emotions. Here is
an old man, bowed with age, with his little
granddaughter, whom he laboriously raises in
his arms, that she may see the face.

" Oh, grandpapa, how beautiful she is ! What
is she lying there for? Is she asleep?"

"Yes, my child, asleep — sound asleep."

"Asleep in church ! Oh, grandpapa !"

"Yes, sound asleep — sound asleep."

And they pass quickly on, for here come two
fine ladies, and they look impatient.

"Why, shew pretty!"

"Yes— rather."

"Give me those flowers."

"Take them."

" I'm sure they are the prettiest that will be
brought here to-day. I will lay them at the
head; they'll look better there."

Pass on there, women ! for here come two
miserable wretches, with wild hair and harden-
ed looks — outcasts, who have slept in the pris-
on, and oftener in the gutter — fiends that were
born to be women.

"Poor thing!"

"Hush ! She was better than you."

"What a pity ! Oh, what a pity !"

THE CALIFORNIA^.

"Hush ! They are listening."

"I — I — don't like to put 'em there, 'longside
them pretty ones."

"Hush ! Put 'em there quick, so they won't
see you."

Pass on, there, with your rags, and dirt, and
uncleanliness ! Pass on, and be quick about
it, for you have no heart nor soul — degraded
things ! The flowers you left are withered and
dead as the memory of your innocence.

And thus they go, passing on and on. There
are persons of intellect and persons of culture,
and persons with heart and persons without
heart, and ignorant persons, and the good and
the bad — all passing on and on.

The organist is playing an air in a minor
strain. Painfully sweet it seems to-day, with
light and life without, and death and darkness
within. In some hearts it awakens chords that
better had slumbered on forever; while into
others it sinks deep and tenderly, going down
into unused places, and finding beauty there,
and bringing it up to life.

And still they come, and still they go, pass-
ing on and on — passing by hundreds, until the
church is empty.

CHAPTER XI.

Garratt had done all in his power. He and
Casserly worked together, to the same end, but
with different motives. Casserly looked to the
duty that devolved upon him to hunt down the
criminal, and there was, besides, a considerable
amount of pride in the feelings that actuated his
conduct. With Garratt it was different. He re-
cognized but one ultimatum — success. To ac-
complish this he would scruple at nothing that
could be done by legal means. With him noth-
ing was sacred that stood in the way of this
purpose. And, strange to say, it was more his
construction of duty than the gratification of
heartless malice. Garratt was a useful mem-
ber of a certain church ; could offer a good,
though not eloquent, prayer, and was not mean
in matters of charity that involved simply an
outlay of money. He was prosperous in busi-
ness, and had many friends. His disposition
was rather impatient than domineering, and he
was entirely lacking in every trace of sentimen-
tality— apart from religious matters. It would
be unkind, and doubtless untrue, to assert that
he became one of a religious sect for sordid and
selfish reasons. He was eminently a practical
man — who is defined by sentimentalists a cruel,
cold-hearted, selfish, unscrupulous man — but
these would have been, in Garratt's case, exag-
gerations. It had never been charged against

him that he was not a conscientious man, or
that he could be corrupted in the exercise of
his official duties, or that he ever neglected his
duty in the least particular. On the contrary,
if blame was attached to him at all, it was for
over -zeal.

The coroner's office is a peculiar one, and
much like the physician's. A coroner must
combine tenderness of manner with honesty,
discretion, and tact. He is a sworn officer,
under strict obligations to the terms and spirit
of his oath ; and in this he differs from the phy-
sician, who, when he receives his diploma, is
simply required solemnly to promise certain
things, and is not an officer of the law nor re-
sponsible to bondsmen.

Not unfrequently is it the case that decency
and common humanity require of a coroner
that certain cases coming under his official no-
tice should be handled with the utmost care,
and that revolting disclosures, where no appa-
rent good purpose can be subserved, should not
unnecessarily be made. This is a fact so com-
mon that all reflecting persons are aware of it.
It is often better to bury a crime than expose it.
Coroners, as a rule, appreciate this unwritten
law, and act upon it, with the full sanction and
commendation of society. It is a part of their
duty, and no coroner performs his whole duty
who neglects this one. Still, this is a method
of reasoning that the public does not trouble
itself to follow out, and so it simply says of a
man who violates this obligation that he is over-
zealous and too faithful; but no general bad
opinion of him is thereby created. This is one
of the anomalies of human nature.

Now, in order to carry out this rigorous idea
of duty, a person must lack charity, that high-
est of human qualities. Charity and honesty
may go together, but it is a curious fact that
they are entirely independent of each other, and
travel in different channels, and come from dif-
ferent sources. One may exist without the
other. Charity is an impulse, and honesty is a
principle. Impulses are always natural, while
principles are frequently the result of cultiva-
tion. But, as a rule, principles are safer than
impulses.

Garratt was not an uncommon type of men.
He was utterly unable to appreciate the feelings
that actuated Mrs. Howard. When he read to
her the terrible newspaper report he had the
hope that in the burst of anger he was sure
would follow she would commit herself, or state
the facts, whatever they might be. He was
naturally a suspicious man, and he certainly
was a hard man.

With great care he had seen that an autopsy
was properly made. The course of the bullet

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

was traced by skillful hands, and the direction
from which it came ascertained. Death must
have followed quickly, and doubtless not a groan
escaped the girl. Carrying out his idea persist-
ently, he had ransacked the room for possible
evidence. Without any scruples whatever, he
read several letters and papers he found here
and there, but had discovered nothing. One of
the jurymen, however, made a strange discov-
ery, in this manner: He accidentally saw in
the grate the cinders of paper that had been
recently burned.

"Doctor," he said, "come and look at this."

Garratt hurried up, stooped over the grate,
and examined them closely.

"Those were letters," he remarked.

Here was a discovery. Garratt touched the
cinders, and they crumbled to ashes.

"They are all burned," he said.

In fact, not a single piece remained. After
admitting as much light into the room as pos-
sible, he fell upon his knees and scrutinized the
cinders closely, but he could decipher not a sin-
gle word. During all this examination the body
of the girl was lying on the bed.

"Now," said Garratt, as all the jurymen gath-
ered around, "you see at once that there has
been no other fire in this grate. There is not a
trace of ashes. These letters were thrown into
it and burned, for fear they would give evi-
dence. Who threw them in ? The policeman ?
No. Who, then? Mrs. Howard. We see her
cunning everywhere. She is playing a desper-
ate game. Now, let us think. As she is so de-
termined that the truth shall not be discovered,
it must be of a nature that would make some-
body hang. There can be no doubt of that —
at least, to my mind."

"But how are you going to find out?"

"Make her talk."

"How?"

"You shall see."

"Casserly says she told him that she would
not testify before a coroner's jury."

"Very well; but wait and see."

"She is a deep woman, Doctor."

"Is she?" asked Garratt, as he laughed.

"She fooled Casserly and the mob, both."

"Very good."

"Can you make her talk?"

"I promise nothing; but Casserly has posi-
tive information of the girl's whereabouts, and
when he brings her here we shall see. He has
gone to bring her."

"But she may tell Casserly all about it."

" I think not," said Garratt. " Casserly means
well, but "

"But what?"

"Nothing."

"She may speak of her own accord."

"She may."

He searched everywhere. The discovery of
the burnt paper inspired Garratt more than
ever with the importance of the case, and con-
vinced him that Mrs. Howard must have had
the strongest motives for the many extraordi-
nary things which she had done, all tending to
one end — the concealment of the facts. Gar-
ratt cannot be censured for entertaining this
opinion, for the case presented many remarka-
ble features. The inquest was postponed until
further developments should be made, and in
the meantime the dead girl was buried.

Casserly had seen that it was useless for him
to make any further attempt at extorting a con-
fession from Mrs. Howard; but Judge Simon
felt a singular interest in the affair. Casserly
depended upon him greatly in many things, and
particularly in the matter of sounding the mo-
tives of the mother and son. Judge Simon was
greatly disappointed that he had failed to see
the young man, but would make amends by
talking with the mother. This was not done
until after the funeral, and before Casserly re-
turned with Emily Randolph.

The rules governing the jail were not over-
strict. It is true that ordinarily dangerous
criminals were not permitted to hold conversa-
tion with visitors unless it was in the presence
of a jail officer, but there were occasional viola-
tions of this important rule. When Judge Si-
mon called Tuesday morning to see Mrs. How-
ard he was permitted not only to see her alone,
but to enter her cell upon her invitation. The
strongest woman needs a friend in time of great
trouble. Mrs. Howard had from the first seen
that in Judge Simon's face which strongly at-
tracted her toward him. Not only honor did
she there see, but tenderness also, and pro-
found regard for her in her affliction.

It was generally understood that the old
Judge had taken a lively interest in the case,
and that he was extending valuable aid to Cas-
serly. His high integrity raised him above all
suspicion of sympathy for the unfortunate pris-
oner, or of any intention to assist her. Cas-
serly looked upon him as his most valuable ally,
and it was agreed between them that the old
Judge should undertake the interview with Mrs.
Howard. But Casserly did not have a very
extensive knowledge of human nature, and was
taking a risk that he knew not of. Judge Si-
mon was nothing if not a kind-hearted man.
So was Casserly; but Casserly had much at
stake in this matter, and kept a strict guard
over his kindly feelings. He was in utter igno-
rance of the fact — and so, also, was Judge Si-
mon himself, for that matter — that the old man's

THE CALIFORNIAN.

sympathy was antagonistic to Casserly's plans.
Although Judge Simon doubted the truth of
Howard's confession, and was ready to believe
that either the mother or Emily Randolph com-
mitted the act of crime, he could not bring him-
self to believe, after he had seen the mother,
that she was the guilty party. So he secretly
agreed with himself that he would conceal from
Casserly his suspicions, which, as a matter of
fact, were merely suspicions, and might prove
wrong. But if the mother had confessed that
she was the criminal, Judge Simon would have
received a terrible shock; a fact the possible
existence of which he could not bring his mind
to entertain.

She exhibited no surprise when the wicket-
door of her cell was opened, and the face of
Judge Simon appeared.

"Judge Simon ! I am glad to see you."

He returned the salutation, and a moment of
awkward silence followed.

"I would like to talk with you, sir. Will
they let me out for a short while, or — or admit
you?"

This instantly relieved him of his embarrass-
ment. He turned to speak to some one she
could not see, and then the door was opened,
and Judge Simon entered.

The cell occupied the south-east corner of
the jail proper ; was large and airy, having two
grated windows. It was furnished with a cheap
bedstead, a small table, upon which stood a
pitcher and wash-basin, a piece of looking-glass
held against the wall by tacks at various angles
in the fragment of glass, and a few flower-pots
in the east window, containing geraniums that
were suffering for water. There were marks
upon the wall, showing that bunks had recent-
ly been removed from the cell, the indications
consisting principally of discolorations produc-
ed by not over-clean occupants of the bunks as
they rolled against the wall in their sleep. In
addition to the names, dates, scraps of po-
etry, and other inscriptions on the walls, there
was, on the west wall, a picture that was calcu-
lated to test the strength of the strongest nerves,
and engender harrowing nightmares. It was a
life-size portrait done in lead-pencil. The face
was as black as frequent wettings of the pencil-
point could make it, and the eyes were intense-
ly white, and of the shape of a strung bow, with
the elliptical part uppermost. In the center of
each was a spot, very small and very black,
representing the pupil. The remaining parts
of the eyes were vast wildernesses of white.
The nose also was white, and was very like the
letter A with the cross taken out. The mouth
was the most hideous feature, being constructed
on the principle of mouths in heads made from

pumpkins. The teeth, which were each an inch
long, had, in order to relieve the monotony of
color, been made a violent red. Credulous vis-
itors to the jail were told, in quite a solemn
manner, that it was the correct portrait of a
noted criminal of those parts.

This remarkable art production gave rise to
an unexpected incident. Judge Simon was in
the act of seating himself on one of the two
stool-bottom chairs, when his vision was sud-
denly greeted with this spectacle. He invol-
untarily started, for he was a nervous old man,
and the thing stood out upon the wall in a bold
and aggressive manner. Mrs. Howard noticed
his movement, and allowed her gaze also to fall
upon the picture.

"It is not very artistic, sir," she said.

"Artistic ! It's hideous."

"I suppose it was done by a prisoner."

"By some one held for insanity, madam.
No healthy brain could have conceived such
a monstrosity. But — but doesn't it frighten
you?"

"Oh, no. It annoyed me a little at first."

"Why, if I should sleep in such a presence,
I could not help thinking that Dante had failed
to pursue his investigations to any satisfactory
extent. Why, my dear madam, it is an outrage.
Let me see," he said, looking around; "it stares
you to sleep when you retire, and then leaves
the wall and conspires with other monsters to
invade your slumbers. The first thing it does
in the morning is to greet you, on waking, with
that horrible grin."

She smiled faintly at this conceit. It greatly
flattered him.

"It is a shame, madam — a perfect shame.
I'll arrange it so that its insults will not reach
you."

He drew out his handkerchief, and fitted it
to the wall, concealing the picture.

"What are you going to do, Judge?"

"Hide it; blindfold it; gag it; clip its claws."

He glanced around, as if looking for some-
thing, and discovered a small shelf attached to
the wall beneath the piece of broken mirror.
On this shelf was a comb and a brush, and a
small pin-cushion. He went to the shelf, took
two pins, and again stood in front of the por-
trait. He stuck a pin through one corner of
the handkerchief into the brick wall, while he
held the other pin in his mouth, and was pro-
ceeding to secure another corner, so that the
handkerchief would conceal the picture, when
he was interrupted by Mrs. Howard :

"You will need your handkerchief, Judge Si-
mon."

"Oh, no; I assure you I will not. See, I
have another."

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

"But .a newspaper would do just as well."

"No; really, the handkerchief is much bet-
ter. Paper would tear, and fall down, you see."

He said this in a manner of such droll wis-
dom that she smiled again, and this time much
more perceptibly than the other.

His quick eyes soon caught another glaring
defect.

"Madam," he said, "it is a great pity."

"What, sir?"

"Those flowers are dying for water."

"Oh!"

He bustled to the little table, and was grati-
fied to find the pitcher full of water. She
watched him quietly while he watered the
plants.

"I like flowers," he said, suddenly.

"Yes?"

" I do, certainly. So do you."

There was a slight reproach in these words.

" I didn't think of them," she said, quite
sadly.

These two trifling incidents removed the con-
straint that naturally existed between them, and
gave her an insight into his nature; for she
knew well enough that he covered the picture
that its ugliness might not be an effrontery
to her, and that he watered the flowers that
their freshness might throw some gleam of
cheerfulness into her desolate abode — both
showing very slight consideration, but much
delicacy, for all that.

Then he became grave, and, placing his chair
near her, sat down. By an impulse, that sur-
prised him almost as much as it would Casser-
ly, if that official had heard him, he said :

"Madam, you need a friend — a friend you
can depend upon, who can give you advice.
May I be of any assistance to you?"

This took her completely by surprise. She
saw at once that he was perfectly sincere, and
would be glad to help her. Nevertheless, she
could not so suddenly impart her great secret
to any one, especially to a stranger, and when
her own judgment told her that no good could
come of it.

Having said what he did, the old Judge felt
very much like a criminal, for he was about to
betray Casserly; but at that moment he was
constrained to put a higher estimate on the
laws of humanity than on the laws of codes.
It had often been urged, he reflected, that they
were synonymous terms, and so this sustained
his conscience.

She was confused. After some hesitation,
she said :

"I deeply appreciate your kind proffer of
friendship, sir, but I am not deserving of it."

"Tut, tut, madam!"

"And, then, a friend could do nothing for me
in this case,"

"A friend can always be of assistance, mad-
am."

She smiled faintly at his persistence, but
there was, nevertheless, a bright tear in her
eye.

"There is nothing to be done, sir."

"Now, my dear madam, let us talk over this
matter as sensible persons should. You are ig-
norant of legal matters. There is a strange
persistency in these officers of the law that
makes them hunt such things down, and resort
to all kinds of ruses that you know nothing
about. Mark my words : this thing will be fer-
reted to the bottom."

Instantly she turned to stone. He saw it,
and continued :

"If it were only you from whom the facts
were to be learned, the world might go down to
the grave in ignorance. But there are others,
and one of them has been found."

She looked up, startled.

"Casserly has found Emily Randolph, and
will return with her to-night."

A shade of intense anxiety passed over her
face.

"They will resort to every means, fair or foul,
to wring from her the facts. Do you think they
will permit you to speak to her? Certainly
not."

She was so bewildered by the information
that Emily had been found that she could only
gasp:

"Is it quite true that they have found her?"

"There is no doubt of it. Here is a telegram
from Casserly."

She hastily read it, and became convinced.

"They will misrepresent facts to her," Judge
Simon continued, "and employ every means to
make her tell the truth, whether by threats or
any other method. You have a determined op-
ponent in Casserly, and he has everything in
his favor. Besides, he has an unscrupulous ally
in Garratt, the Coroner, who will have no mercy
on you."

This speech almost crushed her. Occasion-
ally a grave suspicion would cross her mind
that this ingenuous old man was practicing sub-
tle cunning to secure a statement from her, but
the thought would die before his earnest, anx-
ious look.

"Madam, disabuse your mind of the idea that
you alone can bring yourself and the others
safe through this trouble. It is almost impos-
sible. Do not be over-confident of yourself and
the plans you have laid. That mistake has
been the ruin of so many — so many. Again,
even if the ordeal of the inquest is passed, the

THE CALIFORNIA^.

examination before a magistrate will follow.
By the way, an important clue has been found."

"What is it?"

"Almost a convincing one. A great many
others, also, will be found, and they will war-
rant the magistrate, perhaps, in committing you
all, without bonds. You may have to lie in jail
for months yet."

"What is the clue?"

Should he divulge it? He reflected a mo-
ment, and decided.

"They have found where the pistol was
bought, and when."

"And by whom?"

"Yes; your son, two days before the killing."

She sank under this terrible blow. Deathly
pale, and trembling violently, she tried to utter
a denial, but failed. She was speechless with
grief and terror. At length, recovering her
voice, she said, almost gasping :

"That is not proof against him."

"But it is a strong circumstance, and persons
have been hanged on less convincing evidence.
It would not be enough to convince me, but a
jury is different."

She sat so helpless and pitiful that the pro-
foundest feeling of the old man's good heart
was touched. He almost regretted that he had
filled her with so much alarm, but consoled
himself with the reflection that it was a binding
duty.

"Madam," he said, "it has been thirty years
since I practiced law, and fifteen years since I
left the bench. But I will forget my age, and
be a young man again. I am almost old enough
to be your grandfather. Listen attentively to
what I am about to say. I will be your attor-
ney. You must have one — you cannot be with-
out one. I will take this case in hand, and do
what I can for you. I will take no refusal."

There were bright tears in his eyes as he said
this, for Mrs. Howard was crying bitterly —
weeping as if she had not a friend in the world,
but was desolate, desolate.

He stood beside her, and took her hand with
great tenderness.

"My dear friend," he said, softly, "it may
come out all right. I will do all that a man
can do. Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"Casserly thinks I am assisting him to hunt
you down. Do not let him know any better.
He depends very much upon me, for he knows
that I have a better knowledge of such things
than he. Casserly would feel desperate and
undone if he knew that I am against him. You
and I will work together against him. We
will meet cunning with cunning. I don't ask
you for any confidences now. There is time

enough for that. Compose yourself when I am
gone, and think calmly over it. But for all you
do, don't deceive me or mislead me ; don't be-
tray me and my friendship for you. Will you
promise that?"

"Yes," she answered, in a whisper.

"Then I will put implicit confidence in you."

He went to the door, and rapped with his
pocket-knife upon the wicket-door. She arose
hastily, and approached him, and took his
hand.

"I want to thank you," she said, brokenly,
between her sobs.

"Tut, tut ! It is nothing."

"If — " she continued, "if they find my son —
or Emily — says anything — I'll tell you — the
truth."

The footsteps of the jailer were heard, and
she went to the window. The door was open-
ed, and Judge Simon passed out, his old head
trembling somewhat with agitation.

Long did Mrs. Howard stand at the window,
gazing at the court-house, examining minutely
the arabesque carving of the brackets beneath
the coping; gazing at the trees in St. James
Square; gazing far beyond them at the foot-
hills, which soon became tinged with the soft
glow of the setting sun ; gazing far, far beyond
them at the reddish-blue sky, and vaguely won-
dering how far it was away ; gazing, gazing, till
night came on and wrapped the city in gloom.

It must have been about nine o'clock when
her meditation was interrupted by the sound
of carnage -wheels in the passage-way. The
carriage halted at the gate. Soon afterward
she heard the faint tinkle of the jail bell. It
seemed an age before the jailer appeared in the
yard below, bearing a lantern and a bunch of
keys. He cautiously opened the small wicket
near the door, and the gruff voice of a man
asked him to open the door. He evidently
recognized the man, for he instantly obeyed.

Casserly entered. Clinging to his arm was
the fragile, timid, hesitating form of a girl.
The light from the lantern fell upon her face,
which was pale and frightened. The two burn-
ing eyes in the window above recognized Em-
ily Randolph.

A shrill cry startled Casserly. It came from
above. It was a despairing cry :

"Emily, my child!"

The girl looked wistfully around, not know-
ing whence the voice came, but recognizing it
instantly. She had halted. Casserly uttered
an imprecation, seized her in his strong arm,
and dragged her hurriedly to the jail door.

"Emily, remember!" came the cry again, as
the door slammed noisily and shut them in.

Oh, John, how could you, how could you !

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

CHAPTER XII.

Dust. Great clouds of it. Immense billows
of it, rolling one upon the other, chasing one
another, wrangling and contending, grim, si-
lent, and aggressive ; angry dust — dust that
had been trodden upon and ground under the
heel until it rebelled. Now it leaps madly up
as a tormenting gust of wind sweeps down the
mountain-side and stirs its ire ; then, expending
its venom, it lies, snarling, down again, only to
spring up with renewed vigor and fasten its
fangs upon the feet and legs of two pedestrians
toiling wearily through it and maddening it to
desperation. It had been patient for so long —
for ages ; had slept peacefully while men came
into the world and passed away, and generation
followed generation to the tomb. Dust whose
empire had been usurped, whose domain had
been invaded. Dust which had lain contented
through ages, and rose up in arms against in-
trusion. Fierce and determined, it sent detach-
ments to settle upon the leaves and hide their
beauty; others to choke the thrush, and hush
his song; others to scamper wildly down the
mountain, and up the mountain, and raise the
devil everywhere.

The two pedestrians trudged wearily through
it, covered and begrimed with it. One was a
young man ; the other was older, and would
have been quite tall if the crooked places in
him had been straightened out. The younger
man was silent and gloomy, and the other
watched him furtively, as if wondering what he
would next do or say.

"A many a time," said the older, "I've hed
sech work to do. Onct I cleaned out a poker
sharp in Ferginny City, an' then he got on his
ear an' said ez how he'd chaw me up. Well, I
don't like to blow, but they've got to git up early
in the mornin' to chaw me, fer I'm purty good
on the chaw myself. Samson's riddle warn't a
circumstance to the chawin' thet was done thet
day."

"Did you eat him?"

"No; oh, no; I chawed him."

"Simply chawed him !"

"Thet's it — simply chawed. Chawed him up
so fine thet his friends couldn't tell whether he
had swallowed a load o' giant powder, an' it
hed gone off in him, or was a bear-skin, tanned
by the chemical pro-cess. Then I lit out. They
trailed me up into the Sierry Nevaidy — "

"What for?"

"To kill me, I reckin. Thet was about the
size of the tune they wanted to play on my fid-
dle. But when they ketched up with me, /was
thar, too.'.'

"Indeed?"

"Yes; thar, small but nat'ral; thar, from the
crown of my head to the sole of my foot ; six
long foot of me thar; a hull infantry battalion
of me."

"What then?"

"I drawed up a set of resolutions ez how I
was a harry cane an' — "

"A what?"

"Harry cane — tornado — water-spout."

"Oh!"

"Then we went at it." Saying which the
man looked around with an air of indifference,
and of disclaiming modesty.

"What did you do?"

"'Modesty ferbids me, Mr. Howard. Ye'rea
brave man, an' kin respec' silence. All I'm
pertickler 'bout addin' is thet I'm here — six
long foot of me, an' a few inches to spar',
hevin' growed some sence then."

They plodded along through the dust, that
lay three or four inches deep in the road, and
maintained a silence for some time.

"These are lovely mountains, Sam."

"Yes, very good. Plenty o' b'ar in these here
Santy Cruz Mountains. I'd like to tackle one,
jist fer a change. It's a-gittin' lonesome."

The road wound along the side of the mount-
ain, and on either side was abundant growth.
Far below them was Los Gatos — an unpreten-
tious stream at that point — and they could catch
glimpses of it at rare intervals, sparkling in the
sunlight.

As they were thus trudging along, the Crane
inadvertently stepped into a hidden rut that
had been cut by the heavy lumber wagons, and,
as it was filled with dust, he did not observe it,
but tumbled sprawling to the ground. He ut-
tered a horrible oath, and regained his feet,
swearing vengeance on everything.

The Crane had a vast respect for the young
man. It was inspired by the following inci-
dent, which occured soon after they had aban-
doned the cart : Howard insisted on their sep-
arating, but the Crane begged so earnestly, and
with such positive indications of fright at being
abandoned, that the young man consented to
retain him. The Crane knew that he himself
was a criminal, for having conspired in the es-
cape of the prisoner. Their community of in-
terests brought about aHdnd'of familiarity. So,
after they had walked a few hours together, the
Crane asked, in a confidential manner :

"We're kind o' in the same boat now, an'
yer'd better tell me why yer killed her, hadn't
yer? 'Twould ease yer mind, like."

Howard turned angrily upon him, seized the
lapels of his greasy coat, and, glaring at him
like a tiger, in a quiet but angry tone said :

THE CALIFORNIAN.

"If you ever mention that subject again, I'll
cut your throat from ear to ear."

This frightened the harmless Crane nearly
out of his wits, and he hastily promised that he
never would advert to it again.

Thus the Crane knew he was a brave man,
and so mentioned that fact while they were
plowing through the thick dust of the mountain
road.

For four days they skulked in the mountains,
buying food at isolated farm-houses, and sleep-
ing in the fields or in the woods. Howard was
attired in a suit of rough clothes that the Crane
had purchased for him, his own having been
taken by his mother to dress the effigy ; and,
with black whiskers that were cropping out,
and in the dirt and dust that covered him, was
not recognizable as the young man of the crime.
There never was a question by those who saw
them but that they were tramps ; and, in order
to carry out this illusion, they sometimes begged
for food. Besides, their supply of money was
limited. The Crane bore the proud distinction
of being the treasurer, Mrs. Howard having
given him all the money she had about her,
which, as bad fortune would have it, was only
twenty -five dollars. It is true that she had
given the Crane her watch, which, with the chain,
was valuable, but they dared not offer it for
sale ; and Howard had in his pocket a diamond
ring that she had forced upon him, but it would
have been a fool -hardy step to endeavor to
sell it.

The Crane had another reason for keeping
Howard in sight, and it was no other than the
fear of losing the five hundred dollars that Mrs.
Howard promised him if he succeeded in keep-
ing her son from arrest. As the payment of
the money was contingent on this, the Crane
dared not lose sight of him, fearing that the
young man would again surrender himself.

As the two men had avoided the thorough-
fares, they were ignorant of everything that had
transpired since the riot. In escaping and re-
maining concealed, Howard was simply obey-
ing a strong appeal by his mother, and not fol-
lowing an inclination of his own. The possi-
bility had never occurred to his mind that his
mother and Emily Randolph would be appre-
hended and thrown into prison. Rather than
have even this indignity put on either of them,
he would have persisted in his confession of
the murder.

A desire to learn something of the way in
which his escape was regarded became so great
that it could no longer be denied ; and Howard
trusted to his disguise to shield him from iden-
tification. They were, therefore, finding their
way to a staging station, to see the newspapers,

and were walking through the dust to reach it.
As they neared the station, a strange dread
seized them, and they instinctively practiced
greater caution, darting from the road into the
brush whenever they heard an approaching
team.

At length the station was sighted. It was
upon a plateau that formed the top of one of the
lower mountains. The level ground was planted
in fruit-trees, while the slopes were covered
with vineyards. The station consisted of two
buildings. One was the dwelling of the pro-
prietor, and the other contained a store, saloon,
and post-office combined.

Howard left the Crane in the brush, knowing
that with persons of any powers of observation
the Crane would be recognized at a glance ; his
appearance was too remarkable not to attract
attention. Howard found a few lourigers at the
store, as it was about noon, when some labor-
ers dropped in for a drink and a chat. He
walked boldly into the store, the animated con-
versation that was going on being interrupted
by his entrance. There was a rough -looking
clerk in the store, who simply stared at the in-
truder, without rising from his seat.

"Who has charge here?" asked Howard.

"I have."

"Will you be so kind as to get up, and walk
behind that counter?"

"Maybe, if you want something."

"I want something, then."

The clerk slowly came to the perpendicular,
his joints snapping with the effort. It is a
strange physiological fact that the joints of lazy
men snap more willingly and more heartily than
do those of other men. This is particularly
noticeable with those who indulge in the dissi-
pation of snapping their finger -joints. The
clerk laboriously walked behind the counter,
and then collapsed, falling upon the counter,
and supporting his weight thereon with his el-
bows.

"What d'yer want?"

"A drink."

The man of unstrung energies then painfully
straightened himself again, and handed out a
bottle and a tumbler.

"Will you take something?" asked Howard.

"Don't keer if I do," replied the man, yawn-
ing as if dissolution were imminent.

After drinking the vile liquor and paying for
it, Howard seated himself on an empty box,
and picked up a newspaper. It was with a de-
gree of anxiety and pallor that he sought for
news. At last he found it.

He found it and read, and it nearly unnerved
him ; his breast heaved with anger and indig-
nation. So absorbed was he that he forgot his

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

surroundings, until one of the men startled him
with the remark :

"Must be kind o' interestin' news yer're read-
in', stranger."

Instantly he was calm again.

"It was the whisky that made me sick," he
replied, quickly.

The clerk took this as a personal affront.

"It's as good whisky as yer kin git in these
mountains," he replied, indignantly.

Howard did not argue the point. The news
that he had read was a recapitulation of all
that had occurred since the riot; and it was
further stated that Emily Randolph, it was be-
lieved, had made a full statement under Cas-
serly's ruse (which was Howard's pretended
implication of her), and that there was no long-
er a reasonable doubt that justice demanded
the immediate capture of Howard, for whose
apprehension a heavy reward had been offered
by the Governor. It was noted, however, that
such statement by Emily Randolph was more
a surmise than anything else, which was based
on corroborative circumstances tending to fast-
en the crime on Howard, and on the strenuous
efforts that the authorities were making for his
arrest. Casserly, it was said, was very reticent,
but admitted frankly that the case was as strong
as he could wish — against whom he would not
say.

Howard rose to his feet with the old spirit of
reckless desperation. That his mother and the
girl should be in prison, and under suspicion,
was more than he could bear.

The conversation of the men turned on this
subject. They wondered if Howard was still
hiding in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Some
thought not, but that he was making his way
to the south. During this conversation the
eyes of the clerk were fastened steadily on
Howard, who finally rose, and, bidding them
good day, sought the Crane. He found the lat-
ter gentleman where he had left him.

"Sam, I'm going back to San Jose*. You
may stay, if you prefer."

The Crane was greatly surprised, and eagerly
demanded an explanation. Howard doggedly
refused to give it, and turned to walk away and
carry out his purpose. An unusual and dan-

gerous glitter came into the eyes of the Crane.
He sprang before Howard with surprising agil-
ity, and said, fiercely :

"You shan't go."

"Eh?" demanded Howard, halting, and star-
ing at him, bewildered.

"You're a-goin' to stay right here," said the
Crane, as he whipped out the famous sheath-
knife, and assumed the half cowering posture
of a timid man who knows that his adversary
is unarmed and helpless.

The two men glared silently at each other a
moment. Then Howard began to step slowly
backward. The Crane, mistaking this move-
ment for fear, approached. Howard halted,
and the Crane did likewise, holding the long
knife in readiness to strike. A coward is a
dangerous foe under such circumstances, and
Howard knew it. He would take no desperate
chances now, for his life was precious, How-
ard saw the uselessness of an attempt at par-
leying. He suddenly turned and fled rapidly,
putting considerable distance between himself
and the Crane, who sprang after him. But
Howard had all his wits about him. At the
first opportunity, after they had run nearly a
quarter of a mile, he picked up a heavy stave,
and turned upon the Crane. The latter halted
so suddenly that he nearly fell. It was How-
ard's turn now to advance. He did so, and the
Crane fled precipitately — ran like a deer, bound-
ed over logs and bushes until he disappeared in
the distance. Howard abandoned the chase,
and turned his steps toward San Jose, soon for-
getting the incident in the great cares that
bowed him down. He thought of all manner
of impossible things that ought to be done, and
the determination commenced to take root in
his mind that he would murder this villain
called Casserly, for the wrong he had done the
defenseless girl.

But there was a danger lurking in his road
that he knew not of. The Crane followed him
stealthily, with the knife in his hand, and only
biding his time. If Howard were dead, and his
body concealed in some mountain gorge, the
Crane could claim his bribe with impunity; for
Howard would then be far beyond the reach of
earthly justice. W. C. MORROW.

[CONTINUED IN NEXT NUMBER.]

THE CALIFORNIAN.

LOVE'S KNIGHTLINESS.

So brave is Love, and rosy, sunny sweet,
The darkness breaks to day before his feet —
So knightly that his bright, unworldly words
Soar through the ethers like ecstatic birds :
His golden pseans at the rise of suns,
What time the stars do pass like quiet nuns,
Soar to the fire of dawn through crimson cloud
And sing as larks their victories aloud;
Low whispers in the blushing ear of Joy
Are purple doves, whose days are one employ
Of bridal worship, where the zephyr weaves
Its liquid music in the sunny leaves;
And all his elfin lyrics of delights,
Writ in his ritual of bridal rites,
Are joyous throstles for eternal days
On stilly wings down rapture's rosy ways;
And lo! at twilight all the starry skies
Hearken to hear Love's orisons arise,
For all his sweet adorings that confess,
When kneeling to the Bridal Holiness,
Take flight as nightingales that love the lily,
And dwell in starry woodlands dim and stilly.

CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM.

UP THE MOSELLE AND AROUND METZ.

I had passed two delightful days at Boppard
among the vineyards on the left banks of the
Rhine, and rather reluctantly took the after-
noon boat to go on down the river, because I
doubted whether in my future rambling in the
border lands between France and Germany I
should come upon any spot which would be so
thoroughly satisfying in its picturesqueness and
peacefulness as this one I was leaving. Cob-
lentz is only an hour distant, and I was there
before night, of which I was very glad, as I had
time to walk across the bridge of boats and en-
joy the rich coloring of the fading sunset upon
the bold crags and massive fortification of Eh-
renbreitstein.

Coblentz stands at the confluence of the Mo-
selle with the Rhine. In order to be not far
from the former river, and my point of depart-
ure the next day for its upper waters, I drove
across the city to the old-fashioned Hotel de
Liege. I told the distinguished looking waiter
who escorted me to my room that I wished to
take the steamboat which left the next morning

at six o'clock for Treves. He bowed most af-
fably in response to my request, assured me
I should be called in ample time, and then dis-
appeared. The careless fellow forgot his prom-
ise, and if I had not awakened in time to dress
hastily and hurry down to the boat, I should
have been obliged to remain over two days.

The little boat was lying at the bank of the
river, just ready to start. It was not certainly
as cheerful a commencement of a pleasure tour
as one might wish. Though it was in the lat-
ter days cf August, the morning was chilly
enough for an overcoat. This, however, large-
ly came from a heavy mist which curtained
river and town. The solid old mediaeval bridge,
though only a little way below us, seemed a se-
ries of spectral arches connecting two distant
cloud-banks. The boat was small and low, and
her deck, at the best not ample, was crowded
with piles of freight. Two or three sleepy pas-
sengers were standing about. Presently a lit-
tle band of eight girls and boys came aboard
with a young man. The uniformity of their

UP THE MOSELLE AND AROUND METZ.

plain dresses indicated that they were from
some public institution, and it proved, upon in-
quiry, that they were poor half-orphans return-
ing to their native village for the vacation. The
only enlivening feature in the prevailing depres-
sion was the shrill notes of a fife playing the
Boccaccio march at the head of a company of
soldiers crossing the bridge.

The little boat pushed off into the stream,
and commenced its two days' journey in a
wheezy, melancholy sort of a way. However, a
cup of hot coffee made the world seem a little
more cheerful, and in a couple of hours the
mist rolled away, the sun shone warmly along
the steep hill-sides, and the puffing, tugging lit-
tle steamer began to look more endurable. As
midday approached it became very warm.

The Rhine between Mayence and Coblentz is
grand and picturesque. In the traveling season
the tourist on one of the passenger boats, which
are constantly passing each other on the way
up or down, discovers very soon that the hur-
ried landings and departures, the constant bus-
tle, the perpetual eating and drinking going
on, bring a succession of disturbing elements
which take off the edge of true enjoyment, and
make him rather glad when the trip is over.
He is on the Continent ; it is a solemn duty to
do the Rhine, and he feels relieved when it is
over. To extract all that is enjoyable from this
noble river one must, as it were, taste it bit by
bit — must linger along its banks, going from
point to point deliberately. Even under these
circumstances he will meet crowds and more or
less of the bustle prevailing where tourists con-
gregate. If he wishes a few days of charming
picturesqueness, let him turn aside, as I did, at
Coblentz, and sail up the valley of the Moselle.
If, however, the traveler does not care to pass
two days on the little boat, he can, on his way
down the Rhine, leave the steamer at Bingen,
go across country by rail to Treves, and sail
down the Moselle with the current, in eleven
hours.

As I said, the mist rolled away and the sun
shone out warmly. We were already among the
vineyards. The river, in the lower half of its
way to the Rhine, twists and turns among the
hills in a most irregular course, and wherever
these hills present a proper exposure they are
covered with vineyards. I was constantly and
everywhere struck with the enormous labor and
expense which these vineyards must have cost.
The most of them lie upon hill-sides which are
so steep that the earth is terraced, and these
terraces are supported most generally by solid
walls of masonry. Frequently a little spot sus-
taining not above two dozen vines will be kept
in place by a larger surface of stone wall.

Vol. III.- 3.

These odds and ends of cultivation very often
lie around in the high angles and corners
away up in apparently inaccessible places.
Sometimes there will be broad, sloping sur-
faces planted up to the summit and stretching
for a mile along the river, and these, on the
line of the roadway which follows the shore, are
flanked by walls of smooth, solid stone ma-
sonry. The wines produced along the Moselle
are known all over the world, but vary in excel-
lence at different points on the river. The best
are made about midway between Coblentz and
Treves. On the second day, while we were
still in this middle section, a passenger came
on board, with whom I fell into conversation.
He was a wine -buyer for dealers in Cologne
and Coblentz, and appeared to be familiar with
all the specialties of the region. He said that
vineyard land is not sold by the acre, but for
so much per vine ; that the best brings about a
dollar and a half per vine; not quite so good, a
dollar ; and the inferior sorts, seventy cents per
vine. The vines are usually planted a little
more than a yard apart each way, so that an
acre of the best is worth between seven and
eight thousand dollars. These hills appear to
be masses of slaty rock. At Marienberg I
walked down the hill through a large vineyard,
which, as far as I could see, had no soil at all ;
the vigorous vines were growing up from a sur-
face of bits of loose slate. The vines were
trained up five and six feet high ; on the Rhine
the custom is to train them somewhat lower.
Most of the Moselle wine is consumed in Ger-
many, and my wine-buying friend said that on
the declaration of war by France against Ger-
many, in 1870, the people of this valley were in
great tribulation, fearing the success of France,
and, as a result, the extension of her bounda-
ries to the Rhine, which would take them in.
They feared a loss of their German market for
their wines would follow, through restrictive tar-
iffs.

The river varies in width, but is not usually
above three to four hundred yards across. The
turns are so abrupt and frequent that a con-
stantly changing series of pictures is presented.
Alongside the bank there is a roadway, dotted
with whitewashed stones on the outer edge,
and lined with small trees. Now and then
there will be the solitary mansion of the well
to do vineyard proprietor, very likely standing
at the mouth of a ravine, opening out to the
water. The building is square, two stories high,
white stuccoed, with steep, slated roof and lit-
tle dormer windows, and most usually a tall
poplar rises by the gate of the small garden.
Generally, however, the people are collected in
the little villages which lie along the river at

THE CALIFORNIAN.

frequent intervals. When one of these stands
at a bend in the river, as is often the case, it
presents a perfect little scene, such as one often
sees on the stage, admires, but yet looks upon
as a bit of pardonable fantasy. In the warm
sunlight there is the same vivid contrasts of
color; in the foreground the glassy stretch of
the smooth-flowing river; on one side the steep
slope of the vineyard, its vines in serried rows,
on the other a wooded hill-side ; in the near dis-
tance the irregular, quaint, white-plastered, hud-
dled-together houses of the village, with their
black slated roofs, and the church steeple ris-
ing from their midst. This confused mass of
structures stands against the dark green back-
ground of a steep, conical hill, which is crowned
with a gray ruin — all that is left of the halls of
the old robber knights, who lorded it over the
village, and perhaps a small section of the sur-
rounding territory, and who came down and
robbed the traveler on the river. We come up
closer to the village, and discover that, though
it is highly picturesque, it cannot be very com-
fortable. Narrow streets run up from the wa-
ter's edge between houses which appear to be
jammed together and pressed down until the
windows are left in all sorts of queer shapes.
There are no open spaces or cheerful little gar-
dens. There will be low stone break -waters
running out into the river, to break the force of
the freshets, which often come down with dev-
astating force in the spring. You will be apt
to see barefooted women out on these stone
projections dipping up water in shiny metal
pails or industriously washing clothes. A little
red flag is, perhaps, displayed on the beach.
This is the sign that a passenger wishes to
come aboard ; so the boat slows up, and a canoe-
like skiff pushes off with the new-comer, who
steps on board.

The most picturesque point on the river is at
Cochem, which is reached about noon of the
first day. The village — or, rather, town, for it
aspires to that dignity — stands at a sharp turn
of the stream, and is piled and crowded along
and up the sides of the steep bank. Up above,
on the crest of the craggy hill, is the castle. It
was occupied by the Archbishops of Treves in
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, was, in
large part, destroyed by the French in 1688, but
within the past ten years has been carefully and
elaborately restored, so that now it looks, no
doubt, as it did in its days of splendor. As the
boat moved away around the turn until town
and castle stood across the background, there
was a picture which seemed like a glimpse into
the middle ages.

Late in the afternoon we came to Alf. Here
the river makes a sweep around a long hill,

and comes back to a point only a few minutes'
walk from the opposite side of the ridge. Most
of the passengers left the boat here, and walk-
ed over. On the top of the ridge we found a
restaurant, and, as is always the case in Ger-
many where there is an opportunity to sit out-
doors and eat and drink, there were people
busily engaged. The view back from Marien-
berg, as the ruin on the top is called, is very
striking, especially of the bold and graceful
span of the railway bridge across the river at
the foot of the hill. Descending to the other
side, I found a short cut through a large vine-
yard which extended over the steep hill-side to
the road on the river bank. The steamboat
was an hour and a half getting around, and I
had plenty of leisure to sit on the bank and
watch the ferry which connects this side with
the little village of Piinderich, on the opposite
bank. It was of the primitive sort — a flat-bot-
tomed boat, whose propelling force was the cur-
rent, and was guided by a rope from one bank
to the other.

Frequent trips were made while I was there.
A wagon would come, drawn by a couple of
cows, loaded with dried pea -vines or straw.
Girls and women, with baskets strapped to their
backs filled with grass, old women with bun-
dles of faggots, laborers, and children, went on
to the little craft, paid a coin to the shock-
headed Charon, glided across, and disappeared
up the narrow village street. The evening twi-
light was settling down, and I was rather disap-
pointed to leave this quiet scene, which made
still another picture to add to the many I had
already enjoyed. The puffing little steamer
came along, and I was obliged to go aboard or
be left behind.

Toward nine o'clock, just as the moon was
coming up over the dark hill-tops, the boat came
alongside of the little landing at Frarbach, and
I went ashore to pass the night at the Belle-
vue Hotel. The little orphan children were
from this place, and there was a great crowd of
children at the landing to greet them as they
came ashore.

The next day, early, we were under way
again. In a few hours we were passing be-
tween long stretches of vineyards, where the
best of the Moselle wine is made. The villages
are closer together, larger, and evidently more
prosperous, than farther down stream. About
noon the country began to be more open. The
hills lie back farther and farther from the river,
and the intervening land is gently rolling and
cultivated with the ordinary farm crops. As
you approach Treves the land on the right rises
in bold red sandstone cliffs, rimmed with trees ;
on the left the plain stretches away to the dis-

UP THE MOSELLE AND AROUND METZ.

tant vine-clad hills. It was Sunday afternoon,
and numerous pleasure parties were sailing on
the glassy river, or crossing it in small boats to
the restaurants and cafes at the foot of and on the
cliffs. We came to the landing, close by the
massive old stone bridge, about four in the aft-
ernoon, and I rather regretfully left the boat.

Above Treves the Moselle is not navigable
except by very small boats drawing a few inches
of water. The valley of the Moselle is excep-
tionally rich in historical associations, com-
mencing with the overthrow of the Treveri, a
tribe of Belgic Gauls, by Julius Caesar, B. c.
56, and running down through mediaeval times,
through the devastations of the Thirty Years'
War, and in this century in connection with
the Napoleonic occupation. In and about
Treves are enduring traces of the Romans, and
all along the river to the Rhine are gray ruins,
mementoes of the feudal days and the later
stormy times of the seventeenth century. These
ruins, however, are not as frequent or as impos-
ing as those of the Rhine, but, as along the
larger river, these of the Moselle have each its
legend.

Treves is the oldest of the German cities. It
is supposed to have been established as a Roman
colony in the first century of our era, during
the reign of the Emperor Claudius. It subse-
quently became the capital of the Occident, and
the center of Roman domination in Gaul, Spain,
and Great Britain. Many of the Emperors,
among others Constantius, Constantine the
Great, Valentinius, Gratianus, and Maximus,
had residences there. Christianity obtained a
foothold there at a very early date, and was
definitely established by an edict of Constan-
tine in 313. Later it was joined to the Frank-
ish monarchy. In 843 it was incorporated
with Lorraine, but not long after was ceded to
Germany, to which it has always since then
appertained, except during the French occu-
pation at the time of the revolution.

During the* middle ages it was governed by
Archbishops, subsequently by Electors. In
1634 the city was taken by the Spaniards, then
by the French under Turrenne in 1645. In
1794 in was occupied by France, and by the
Treaty of LuneVille in 1801 was ceded to that
country. This domination, however, only last-
ed until 1814, when Prussia took possession,
which possession was made definitive by the
Treaty of Vienna of 1816. It will thus be seen
that the city has had a long and checkered his-
tory. At present it contains about 22,000 in-
habitants, of whom perhaps one -tenth only are
Protestants.

Early in the morning following my arrival I
walked out through the narrow streets, toward

the north-east quarter of the city, and thence
out, perhaps a fifteen -minutes' walk into the
country, to the ruins of the Roman Amphithea-
ter. The roadway is lined with trees, and leads
past a pretentious villa surrounded with pretty
grounds. To the right the outlook between the
trees is over rolling fields, which just then were
covered with the yellow shocks of the newly
cut grain ; in the distance were pretty bits of
wood. I turned to the left into the broad en-
trance of the Amphitheatre. Nothing is left but
the lower parts of the solid brick walls. The
arena is clearly defined ; along up the circling
sides, where the multitude sat, are trees and
bushes, and up on the adjoining hill -side stands
a cosy dwelling, supported on one side by a
fragment of the upper wall. I walked across
the arena and turned up the bank on the oppo-
site side, and sat down where I could overlook
the entire city, which lies upon lower ground,
and also the ruins about me. I might easily
have fancied myself in Italy. There was the
soft, warm haze of August over the charming
scene. In the background were those bluffs on
the left bank of the river, the red sandstone
gleaming out through the fringing and lacing of
green, and contrasting with the white houses
along their base. In the middle ground the
brown, slated roofs of the city, out of which
arose the massive towers of the old Cathedral ;
to the left the modern -looking brick Basilica,
which it is true is partly renewed, but which
in the main is fifteen centuries old ; alongside
it the Stadt -house, which, though less than two
centuries old, looks in its degraded, fantastic
style, tawdry, aged, and wrinkled. Away on the
opposite side of the city are the massive gray
remains of the Porta Nigra. Back of where I
sat rise slopes covered with vineyards. Pres-
ently a soft chime of bells came across the
housetops from the old dome. The deception
was complete ; it must really be a section of
Italy, accidentally out of place. I heard the
laughter of children and looked down into the
grassy arena, from whence it came, and saw a
half dozen youngsters pursuing butterflies. Two
or three obvious reflections were suggested.
One was the contrast between the sports of
these boys and girls and those of the earlier
days on this spot, where men had killed each
other, or had fought wild beasts in order to gain
the applause of the populace. Another was, how
ineradicable is this disposition to capture and
destroy; and, after all, is the difference between
human nature to-day and two thousand years
ago appreciable in its essence? However, the
boys captured the butterflies, stuck pins through
them, and amused themselves with the fluttering
of the impaled insects, and I turned to again

THE CALIFORNIAN.

enjoy the quiet beauty of the picture of city and
vineyard.

The arena of this amphitheatre is oval -shap-
ed, two hundred and ten feet long and one hun-
dred and sixty feet wide. The entrances to the
dens for the wild beasts and to the chambers for
the gladiators are still plainly traceable, lead-
ing into the arena. Thirty thousand spectators
could be accommodated on its benches, which
is about one -third of the number which the
Coliseum at Rome could hold. The Treveans
of those early days were regaled with frequent
and striking spectacles in the arena. It is re-
corded that thousands of captive Franks and
Bructori were torn to pieces by wild beasts or
sacrificed to amuse the people.

Not far distant at the corner of the city are
the ruins of a Roman palace, showing remains
of halls and chambers, heating -rooms, and even
water-pipes and hot-air pipes. The best pre-
served, however, of these Roman remains, is
the Porta Nigra, a two -story massive gateway
on the west side of the city ; the huge blocks of
granite, now blackened with age, are clearly fit-
ted and clamped together with iron, and the
broad surface and great elevation are relieved
with graceful arches of gateway and window -
like openings above, with solid pillars and cor-
nices along the front.

There are also recently uncovered remains of
an extensive bath. The Basilica is a massive
brick structure, now restored and used for a
church ; formerly it was the Roman Court of
Justice and Exchange.

The Cathedral is a noble monument of a later
era. It is one of the oldest churches in Ger-
many, its beginnings even going back into Ro-
man times ; and its different stages of growth
and restoration, after partial destruction and de-
cay though these many centuries, are plainly
traceable in its huge irregular exterior. With-
in, the glare of day is softened by the oldest of
painted windows, through which a soft light
falls upon dozens of tombs and monuments of
Electors and Archbishops, who at various times
were mighty in the land. A little side door, not
far from the altar, leads into remarkably beau-
tiful and well preserved cloisters, which are
supposed to have been built in the thirteenth
century. In the center is a pretty garden, over-
shadowed on the south and west by the lofty,
irregularly built side of the Dome, and by the
adjoining graceful, gothic Liebfrauenkirche.

I rambled about the narrow, winding streets of
the old city, watching the quiet life of the peo-
ple, and then out on to the massive old Roman
bridge, and had a glance up and down the Mo-
selle ; below, the red sandstone hights to the left,
and the city to the right; above, the glassy

surface of the quiet river, making a graceful,
sweeping bend toward the city, here and there
boats moored to its banks, and in the distance
the vine -covered hill -sides looking like distant
cornfields.

I was loth to leave ; but the traveler, like the
tramp, must keep moving on ; and so, after a
couple of days in this quaint old city of Treves,
I was flying along south, in the afternoon train,
towards Metz, which is also on the Moselle.
The country very soon opens out into broad, roll-
ing fields on each side of the ever narrowing
river. Metz is three hours by rail from Treves,
and before one is two -thirds of the way the
French speech begins to be heard about the
railway stations and from passengers who come
on the train. In other words, we come into the
province of Lorraine, taken from the French
ten years ago. The Germans now designate
their conquest by the general name of Elsass-
Lothringen. The railroad station at Metz is
just outside the walls, and as I drove through
the massive gateway, flanked on each side with
cannon, and through the narrow streets, where
every other passer was a soldier, I became
vividly conscious that I was in a conquered
fortification on the border of a nation with
whom war is possible, and not really improba-
ble, at any moment. Germany and France are
under a constant military strain — the one is
ready, and seeks to maintain herself alertly and
effectively so ; the other is quietly and persist-
ently making herself ready.

Metz is really a German advanced post in an
enemy's territory. The resident population is
about 49,000, of whom perhaps one - quarter are
Germans who have come in since the conquest ;
the remainder are French. It is said that the
city has lost since 1870 about 17,000 of its old
population, who have voluntarily abandoned it,
rather than remain under German rule. The
garrison consists of from sixteen to eighteen
thousand men, and consequently officers and
soldiers abound in every direction, and at all
times there is the tramp of companies and reg-
iments in the streets. The German officers and
privates are much more soldierly in appearance,
and, as far as one can judge casually, are, man
for man, heavier and capable of greater physi-
cal endurance than the French. It is apparent
on the surface that the discipline of the former
is very much more rigid.

The fate of the war of '7o-'7i was really set-
tled in and about Metz. The subsequent capt-
ure of Sedan, the advance on Paris, and the
siege and final capitulation, were but the finale
of a drama whose veritable climax was reached
when Bazaine, after the bloody day of Grave-
lotte retreated into Metz.

UP THE MOSELLE AND AROUND METZ.

It will be recollected that MacMahon was
badly defeated by the Crown Prince of Prussia
on the 6th of August, 1870, in a decisive battle
at Worth, and retreated rapidly toward Chal-
ons. There was then a large French force in
and about Metz. Napoleon III. was in com-
mand of the whole army of the Rhine. The
disaster at Worth spread dismay among the
French, and Napoleon hastened to relieve him-
self from personal responsibility for further op-
erations by delivering over to Marshal Bazaine
the chief command, and retired toward the cen-
ter of France. MacMahon's army was badly
shattered. Part of it fled toward Strasbourg,
but the larger number withdrew to Chalons, on
the road to Paris, and there the effort was made
to form a new army. The effect of this move-
ment was to separate the French forces into
two parts — one about Metz, the other at Chalons,
over one hundred miles distant — and naturally
the Germans hastened to concentrate them-
selves in between these two wings, in order to
fight each separately rather than both together.
On the other hand, the obvious policy of the
French was to withdraw from Metz, which now,
by the force of events, had become, as it were,
only a side station on the line of the advancing
enemy, and to concentrate at some available
point in his front. A glance at the map will
show that Metz lies a very little north of east
from Chalons. Bazaine's army lay just east of
Metz, and slowly commenced to move through
the city and across the Moselle westward in
the direction of Chalons. This slowness and
delay proved fatal. The Germans pushed for-
ward some corps under Steinmetz to hold Ba-
zaine in check until they could advance and
concentrate across the road to his destination.
As, therefore, Bazaine's advance guard was
crossing the Moselle on the west side of Metz,
his rear guard, and, in fact, his main force, was
attacked by Steinmetz on the east side. The
French kept the enemy at bay, and the next
day continued their march westward. But the
Germans had gained their point, which was to
delay the French movements at least one day,
to give time to their other troops to move in
advance.

The high road from Metz to Verdun, and
thence to Chalons, runs westerly about five
miles to the little village of Gravelotte ; there it
deflects a little to the south-west, and passes
through the hamlets of Rezonville, Vionville,
and the little town of Mars la Tour. In the
center of Gravelotte a road turns at right an-
gles to the north, then in a mile or so turns
again toward the north-west to Sedan. On the
morning of the combat east of Metz, August
I4th, Napoleon and his son left Metz, slept at

Gravelotte, and the next morning early rode
along this road to Sedan.

Bazaine's army moved slowly westward past
Gravelotte as far as Rezonville in the direction
of Verdun and Chalons. Here, on the i6th of
August, they found the greater part, but not the
whole, of the German army across their path.
The French lines extended obliquely across the
main road, with the center at Rezonville ; the
Germans were in front of them, with their left
also across the road. The proposition on the
French side was to get on to Chalons ; on the
German, to at least hold Bazaine where he was
until there could be a further concentration of
their forces, and more crushing blows could be
given. Here, about Rezonville, a most obsti-
nate and bloody battle was fought. The loss
on each side was seventeen thousand men.
When darkness closed the combat, little ground
had been gained on either side. The Germans
expected a renewal of the fight the next day, but
in the night Bazaine gave the order to retire to-
ward Metz, alleging the failure of provisions and
munitions. On the I7th, new positions were
taken by the French. Their left wing retired
between* two and three miles, while the main
line was swung round at right angles to the old
position.

On the morning of the i8th, the French
lines were extended north and south, instead of
east and west, as on the i6th, with the right and
left wings retired somewhat toward the east.
The German lines were parallel, with the strong-
est bodies of troops in front of the village of
Gravelotte. In the interim, large additions
were made to the German forces, so that they
brought into the decisive struggle 230,000 men
against 180,000 French. The line of battle ex-
tended over about ten miles. The fighting in
front of Gravelotte was terrific, where the at-
tempt at first was to cut through the French
left wing; but finally, toward evening, the Sax-
ons came up on the extreme right wing of the
French, and rolled it back in confusion on the
center and left, which had held their ground.
Bazaine was defeated, and the next day retired
into Metz. The German loss was about 20,000
men, much heavier than that of the French,
which numbered between 12,000 and 13,000.
The operations of the Germans between the
1/j.th and i8th of August had been in a general
way to swing the French army completely round
upon its left wing, as a pivot, into Metz. The
city and the inclosed army were then invested,
and they finally surrendered on the 29th of Oc-
tober. This most extraordinary capitulation
delivered into the hands of the victors 173,000
men, including 71 generals, 6,000 other officers,
and over 1,400 pieces of cannon. The history

THE CAL1FORNIAN.

of warfare does not furnish anything approach-
ing it in magnitude.

On a warm August day I rode out over the
battle-field of the i8th. The dusty road leads
out through the suburbs, crosses the Moselle at
Devant les Fonts, and gradually ascends to the
plateau along which the French army lay,
through what were then woods, but are now,
for military reasons, cut away. Riding through
the little village of Amanvillers, we came to
the village of St. Privat, and, a little farther on,
to the hamlet of Carriers de Jaumont. Around
St. Privat and this last named hamlet was the
right wing of the French, and where they were
finally driven back by the Saxons. Naturally
the fighting was hot, and the houses and walls
still bear evidence of the rough storm of iron
and lead that played around them. It must be
recollected that a French village is not at all
like one of ours. It is a collection of stone
houses with tile roofs, crowded together, side
by side, along one or two narrow streets, and
the walls which surround the little gardens and
inclosures around it are compact stone struct-
ures, laid in mortar and covered with a coat of
plaster.

These wall are usually about five feet in
hight, so that a village is like a little fortification
to the troops in possession of it. The French
troops had their lines for miles along the pla-
teau, the center and left along and in front of
the woods already mentioned. In front the
open country falls away in a slight declination.
One can look for miles across fields, which just
now were being harvested, and were coated with
the yellow stubble. Here and 'there are the
huddled -together villages and hamlets, with
their red-tiled roofs.

I then turned, and rode along a narrow road
which ran along the rear of the German line, to
Gravelotte, where I stopped for lunch at the lit-
tle inn with the magniloquent name of the Horse
of Gold.

Scattered all over this stretch of miles over
which the armies fought are monuments erect-
ed to the fallen, the more pretentious by the
different German regiments to their perished
members. Here and there are mounds with a
simple cross, where perhaps a hundred or two
bodies were collected and hastily buried. After
lunch, I took a walk about the village of Grave-
lotte, and, seeing a collection of persons in a
graveyard, walked in. In this little inclosure,
I was told, about two thousand men had been
buried. There were a few head -stones and
monuments, but the mass were left without me-
mentoes. One little head -stone attracted my
attention from the little wreath of oak leaves
which had evidently been recently placed on

the grave. The inscription neatly traced upon
it ran thus :

" Here reposes in God, fallen for King and Father-
land, in the battle of Gravelotte, my dearly beloved and
never to be forgotten husband, FRITZ DENBARD, Cap-
tain Twenty- ninth Infantry Regiment. We shall see
each other again."

I found the people were watching a laborer
digging up bones, skulls, and bits of shoes and
clothing, and throwing them pell-mell into a
long wooden box. The box was already nearly
full, and yet he had not gone more than a foot
below the surface. I was told that hundreds
had been thrown into a pit here, and they were
transferring the remains to another point. The
spectacle was not a very pleasant one, and I
soon turned away.

A little way out of Gravelotte toward Metz,
about where was the center of the French left,
I rode over a piece of road, bounded on one
side by a ravine and on the other by a bluff
bank, up which four hundred German cavalry
charged to take a battery of mitrailleuse on the
plateau on the top, and every man and horse
was killed or wounded. All about this point
the fighting was terrific, and all around are the
monuments and crosses over the burial places
of the fallen. My way back into Metz led
through Ronzevilles, where the extreme left of
the French was posted. It is not difficult on
the ground for even an unmilitary person to see
that the French had the advantage of position,
and that the Germans, in order to attack all
along the line with vigor, had to have many
more men than their opponents, and in order
to turn the right wing had to march a long dis-
tance over an open country, where there was no
cover from the sweeping fire of batteries and
infantry with long-range arms. One can, there-
fore, understand why the Germans lost so many
men, and also can appreciate the obstinate nat-
ure of their onslaught.

My driver was an intelligent man, a native of
Metz, and was there during the battles and
siege. He expressed what the French univer-
sally assert, that Bazaine was grossly incompe-
tent in the management of the campaign, and
a traitor in surrendering his army. I inquired
of him as to the feelings of the people toward
their conquerors, and he did not hesitate to tell
me, probably because I was a foreigner, that
they were much embittered, and that their pref-
erences were all for France. One great ground
of complaint is the steady increase of the taxes,
which seem, as he said, to be always mounting
higher and will shortly become unbearable, and
also the rigidity of the German conscription.
W. W. CRANE, JR.

THE BEST USE OF WEALTH.

THE BEST USE OF WEALTH/

If a man has a great fortune, what is the best
use he can make of it ? Or, as one perhaps likes
best to put the question, " If I had a great fort-
une, what would I do with it !"

Of course many different answers might be
given, according to the place and time, the
surrounding opportunities, the personal possi-
bilities of the possessor, the claims of private
duties, and so on. But an answer may be sug-
gested which will at least mark out some gen-
eral principles involved in any satisfactory re-
ply. And, to make the inquiry as definite as
possible, let us suppose it put by a man of our
own time, in California (for example), who has
by honest means accumulated a large fortune,
through energy and prudence ; and whose life
has not been so narrow as to make him love
money for its own sake, but has given him a
genuine desire to see his wealth become the
greatest possible power for good to his fellow-
men. Such a man, looking about him, finds
plenty of ways to give passing pleasure with his
money, and perhaps would have little difficulty
in making some part of it a means of happi-
ness, so far as happiness depends on external
circumstances, to this or that individual. But
how to use the whole of it wisely for permanent
good to the community and to mankind ? For
certainly nothing less than this aspiration will
content a man of sufficient breadth and reach
of mind to have gathered and successfully man-
aged a vast property. He will not make the
mistake of leaving that which might have been
a blessing to the community to be a curse to his
own children ; if daughters, to make them the
shining mark for designing villainy; and if sons,
to ruin their careers and characters by an un-
limited income unaccompanied by the energy
and self-command that in his own case were
gained by its very acquisition. History, or in-
deed any man's life -experience, is too full of
examples that point the paralyzing and corrupt-
ing effect of the gift to a young man of unearn-
ed wealth. Plainly, a great fortune must either
be wasted, or worse than wasted, or go to serve
some high public purpose. But where, and
how ?

To begin with, two wholly different general
plans at once suggest themselves : either to dis-

*By special request, and in order to give this article a wider
circulation than in its original form, it is here reprinted, with
slight alterations by the author, from the last number of The
Berkeley Quarterly. — EDITOR.

tribute the entire sum in small portions to vari-
ous scattered benevolent uses, or to concentrate
it on some single object. It is, no doubt, a cer-
tain advantage in the former method, that in
this way one can easily direct the details of
every expenditure, suiting it to a given need,
and avoiding all risk of misappropriation. But,
on the other hand, all such scatcered use of
wealth is in one sense itself a misappropriation,
since it wholly loses that peculiar power resid-
ing in any great sum of money employed as a
unit. The successfuL business man, of all oth-
ers, knows the almost magical increase of force
that belongs to the very magnitude of large
total sums. To throw away this enormous pow-
er of the aggregate amount is to make a single
vast fortune of no more avail than ten insignifi-
cant ones.

If, then, a fortune is to be used as a single
sum, there are again two possible plans : either
to add it as a contribution to some already ex-
isting enterprise or institution, or to found with
it a wholly new one. Let us first consider the
former plan, of contribution to some enterprise
already existing.

Looking about over the world of manifold
activities, we discover, after all, but few lines of
deliberate effort for the generous service of hu-
manity. These may be in the main divided into
three groups, according to their proximate ob-
ject : those which aim to increase men's com-
fort (as, most of what goes under the name of
public charity), those which aim to increase
men's morality (as, the churches), and those
which aim to increase men's intelligence (as,
the high schools, colleges and universities;
these, rather than the lower schools in general,
since the latter are largely the outgrowth of the
aim to bring youth up to the average intelli-
gence, only, in order to enable them to "get on
in the world"). In other words, looking at the
matter from the obverse side, the three groups
of benevolent activities are those aiming to de-
crease human suffering, those aiming to decrease
human wickedness, and those aiming to decrease
human ignorance. The question then arises,
which of these three groups of enterprises is it
most necessary to society to foster : the charita-
ble institutions so-called, the churches, or the
higher educational institutions? Or, granting
the importance of all of them, is there either
one of them,which at the present moment, and

THE CALIFORNIAN.

in our particular stage of civilization, is the
most urgent need of society? Or, again, is there
either one of them which is inclusive of the
others, and by its attainment would accomplish
their ultimate aim also?

One must admit, in the first place, that it
would be a good use for wealth if in any way
it could be employed to make the generality
of men more comfortable. Whatever opinion
one may hold as to the ill effects of too luxuri-
ous or easy a life, he cannot but see that a cer-
tain degree of even merely physical comfort is
a necessary condition of progress in civiliza-
tion. Only a superstitious asceticism could fail
to desire that the mass of men might be reliev-
ed of some part of their benumbing miseries.
The world of ordinary human beings is a hard,
hostile world. So that there is no question that if
man is to "live upward, working out the brute,"
he must escape from brutish misery. For this
end, however, the first need is that we should
understand the fundamental causes of his trou-
bles. Mere short-sighted charity is useless.
To feed the pauper is to produce the pauper.
It is of little use to treat the symptom ; we must
try to cure the disease. But how?

Many persons, especially those who are them-
selves engaged in church work, would answer,
"The cause of human suffering is human sin."
They would say, "Decrease vice, and you de-
crease misery. Moral amelioration is the great
want of the race. Let the money be given to
that great organization which has all these cent-
uries been fighting against human wickedness —
the church."

No doubt there is a truth in this answer, but
not the whole truth. No doubt the church has
done much good, and will continue to do good.
Wickedness is, no doubt, the cause of much
human misery, but we have come in these mod-
ern times to see that ignorance is the cause of
more. It is human ignorance that has kept man
down and kept civilization back. It is progress
in intelligence that has lifted him up, and that
will urge civilization onward. Besides, to go to
the bottom of it, what is the cause of wicked-
ness itself? In the deepest and broadest sense,
ignorance. "We needs must love the highest
when we see it." It is truer sight that is need-
ed, and the truer choice must follow. Who can
doubt that to make men wiser is to make them
better?

Moreover, the greatest service of the church
itself has been in those times and countries
where it has been most conspicuously an edu-
cating force. There was a time in history when
the church was the center of intellectual, as well
as of religious life. And this depended on two
causes : first, its perfect organization inherited

from Rome, and the sole relic of the Roman
organism in an epoch of utter disorganization
and decay ; and secondly, the accident of hav-
ing in its clergy the only profession or occupa-
tion that necessitated the mastery of literature.
The church, as the sole repository of organiza-
tion and of letters, did nobly a two -fold service,
religious and intellectual. But the time came
when there was other organized intellectual
activity and other literature than that of the
church. The universities established secular
learning : the old literature of classic paganism
was rediscovered, and the new literature of
modern thought appeared. And from that time
the church, as an organization, took up its per-
manent position in two camps ; the one as an
ally, more or less hearty, of intellectual prog-
ress, the other absolutely against it. When
Wiclif put the English Bible in every English
household, he builded better than he knew, for
the English mind learned to read and to think,
each mind as a separate individual force, and
the era of intellectual liberty commenced — com-
menced, as it has gone on increasing, through
literature ; that is to say, through the free appro-
priation by the individual mind of free human
thought, feeling, aspiration, and every spiritual
power. So far as the church has increased hu-
man intelligence, it has done a great service for
humanity. But so far as it leaves out of view
the need of higher intelligence, it ignores the
chief source of human misery, for that is men-
tal degradation, brutish stupidity, ignorance.

If, therefore, one great need of society is to
be relieved from its miseries, the only sure path
to that relief is through higher intelligence. If
one of its great needs is to be converted from
its wickedness, the only way is through higher
intelligence. If, in fine, the urgent need of all
humanity is for every reason just this higher in-
telligence, for better living as to material com-
fort, for higher living as to morality, and for its
own sake, that men may be thinking men in-
stead of mere dumb animals, then can any one
doubt that the best use of a princely fortune is
to provide with it for the education of the race?

But if the whole world is too wide to be con-
sidered easily, let us but look at any small seg-
ment of it immediately about us. In Califor-
nia, for instance, what is the great, pressing need
of our time? Material prosperity, no doubt, for
one thing, and greater public and private virtue,
for another; but most pressing of all, partly
because its attainment would surely bring these
others in its train, is the need of higher intelli-
gence in the mass of the people. The process
of evolution in society is precisely a progress in
intelligence; not the mere "smartness" or sharp-
ness of mind, which is but little more than the

THE BEST USE OF WEALTH.

keen sense cf the brute applied to slightly more
complex surroundings, but that broad power of
sight and insight into both material and spiritual
things, such as education alone can bring. There
is the brute stage and the human stage of devel-
opment, with all grades between ; and the hu-
man is higher than the brute by nothing else
than higher intelligence. In our society, as
elsewhere in the world, there are types of every
grade. What it needs is to have the highest
carried higher, and the lowest brought up to
the grade already reached by the highest. At
least, the average must be lifted higher, or our
civilization must come to a standstill or go back-
ward.

The great danger to California is that her
new population, her own native-born youth (for
on them, after all, must depend her future), will
fail to keep abreast of the times. All the wis-
dom that is in the world at any given epoch is
needed to save society, or any segment of it, at
that epoch. The resources of the eighteenth
century are not sufficient for the nineteenth;
for with its enlightenment — not the results of
it, but the results of the same myriad causes —
have come dangers. With the taste of divine
liberty has come the craving for devilish li-
cense. With the sense of personal freedom has
come the impatience of all restraint, even of
that of one's own reason and will. With the
gain of personal power has come the claim of
equal right to power by the brutish mob. The
nineteenth century must save itself, if at all, by
the full possession of all the resources of the
past not only, but of all its own resources, and
by their possession by all men. And these re-
sources can be given to the ordinary mind only
by the best and most liberal education.

Are there, then, any existing organizations
among us ready to receive from wealth the
contribution of its accumulated power, that are
devoted to this most needed service of society?
The world over, the institutions that most near-
ly approach this character are the colleges and
universities. It is now some four hundred years
since they began their work among English-
speaking people, and it is not too much to say
that whatever is valuable in modern civilization
is owing to them more than to all other organ-
ized efforts put together. They have alternate-
ly furnished the radical element when radical-
ism was needed, and the conservative element
when conservatism was needed. They have
been the rallying point for all the forces of en-
lightenment and progress. From them has
come, directly or indirectly, nearly all that the
world counts precious in thought and investiga-
tion. It is through them, and almost through
them alone, that each successive generation has

been made possessor of the intellectual accumu-
lations of all preceding generations. There have
been in all times, no doubt, an exceptional few
who, by dint of remarkable natural endowment,
have risen to the full stature of intellectual men
without their aid. But civilization never could
have been preserved, much less kept on its up-
ward career, by those few anomalous excep-
tions. The great service of the colleges has
been that they have enabled the many ordinary
minds to attain what otherwise could have been
attained only by the few extraordinary minds.
Leaving out of account the scattered prodigies,
the self-made men whose enormous vigor of
mind and character has enabled them to make
the world their college, it is plain enough that
it is the colleges that have bred the men who
have guided civilization forward through the
latter centuries.

And the reason, too, is plain. It is because
in the complex modern life, in the midst of the
rush and swirl of its forces, no untrained, half-
developed man is anything — no trained and de-
veloped man, even, by himself, is anything.
The only mind that can cope with modern life
is the one that has taken advantage of whatever
has yet been learned as to means of high devel-
opment, and that stands not by the feeble
strength of what one life-time can teach a sin-
gle individual, but by the whole force of what-
ever wisdom has been gained through all the
ages, a heritage whose possession it is the untir-
ing effort of the colleges to bestow.

Plainly enough, then, he who would do the
greatest possible service to society, if he is to do
it through any existing institution, can do noth-
ing better than to bestow his fortune on a col-
lege or university. And the same principle
which dictates that he should use his wealth as
a total sum, instead of wasting its force by scat-
tering it, dictates also that he should choose for
his endowment an institution that is already a
power, and that has already received, and is
likely to receive in future, other such endow-
ments. In this way will his means, reinforced
by that of others, continually gain in power of
service. The force which would keep in motion
or accelerate a body already moving, might be
utterly powerless to initiate its motion. Many
a handsome sum has been thrown away on some
small and helpless institution, which would have
been of immense value if joined with the mo-
mentum of a vigorous university. In any such
university, where there is a solid foundation and
active energy of growth, one may find abundant
opportunities for rich investments. There are
new buildings that need to be erected for the
service of science or art. When men build gran-
ite monuments on which to inscribe their names,

THE CALIFORNIA^.

why do they not build them in such wise as this,
that so their memories, instead of being left to
the forgotten solitudes of the graveyard, may be
treasured by successive generations of grateful
students and scholars ? There are costly labora-
tories to be founded; there are libraries to be
collected, bringing to our young men and wom-
en, isolated in our remote regions, the intel-
lectual harvest of the whole world ; there are
scholarships and fellowships to be established,
giving to poor and talented youth the opportu-
nities for which they hunger and thirst. Every
county in the State has wealth that might easily
maintain at the University a score of its bright-
est youth. And every county has private fort-
unes that might endow a free academy or high
school within its borders, so that its youth should
go to college finely prepared. Above all, there
are chairs in the University to be endowed — a
hundred fields of science and art and philosophy
that should be filled by the foremost men in the
world, and that now are silent and empty.

But, one may ask, would it not be better to
build up a new college altogether? Are there
not grave defects in all those existing at pres-
ent— defects which we can see well enough, but
which can hardly be corrected except by leav-
ing them behind and beginning anew? This,
indeed, is a serious question. Great as is the
power for good in our best colleges, it is visible
to some of us that they are far from being the
ideal. Some of them are too closely bound to
the past, by tradition, by precedent, by inher-
ited tendency, for the needs of this present time.
They seem, indeed, to move, as the waves of
modern forces go by them, but they are anchor-
ed in the past, and only rock upon the waves.
Others, on the contrary, are adrift at the mercy
of the unstable gusts of politics, and the shift-
ing notions of the time. They are afloat, it is
true, but they are all afloat, having no bold pol-
icy, no settled plan, no steady onward progress.
Some, in their courses of study, are slow to rec-
ognize that there is anything more to be learn-
ed in this present century than there was three
hundred years ago. They would still make Lat-
in, Greek, and mathematics (the college "three
R's") almost the sole mental furnishing of the
youth preparing for modern life. Others, car-
ried away by the reaction from this extreme,
would count hardly anything as valuable knowl-
edge except what the present generation has
discovered. "Science" is to them like a new
toy, engrossing and delighting the child's every
waking moment ; or, like the dyspeptics latest
medicine, certain to prove the universal pana-
cea. Again, the church is partly right in its
complaint that moral teaching is neglected in
some of the existing colleges. Whatever diffi-

culties may be involved in the connection of
morals with creeds, it is certainly deplorable
that any great institution should go on from
year to year sending out men to be leaders in
modern thought and society without offering to
them instruction from commanding intellects
on the great subjects of ethics, of rights and
wrongs and duties, of the history of the human
intellect in its wrestlings with the great under-
lying problems of existence. Certainly a grand-
er college could be conceived than has ever yet
been builded. The best possible use of a vast
fortune, if vast enough, would be to build such
a one, or even, perhaps, to lay fitly its prophetic
corner-stones.

But, practically, the chances are enormously
against the attainment of any such perfect in-
stitution as might be conceived or dreamed of,
if it were attempted. Unless a man were at the
same time the wealthiest and the wisest man in
the world, and should begin to build his college
in his own middle life, at furthest, so that he
himself might attend to every detail of its es-
tablishment, the chances of success would be
doubtful. If the money were left to a single in-
dividual to control, we should probably have a
tottering edifice built on the back of his partic-
ular educational or religious hobby. If it were
put into the hands of a body of many -minded
trustees, their dissensions might easily frustrate
any judicious plan. After all, is it not true that
valuable organisms must be the result of grad-
ual growth rather than of sudden construction?
Is there not more hope in helping on toward
perfection a well established organization, the
slow product of countless converging forces, by
needed additions and by gradual modifications,
than in trying to replace it by some brand-new
experiment?

And if, finally, one is to select some existing
institution on which to bestow his wealth, where
could it better be found than here in our own
community? At first thought it might seem
more profitable to cast in one's help with the
great universities of the Old World — of Ger-
many or England — or, short of that, of the At-
lantic border. But that is the old civilization,
with growth in it, doubtless, but not the unfet-
tered, vigorous growth of the new. The branch-
ing vine of civilization has gone spreading from
its ancient roots in Asia, on through Greece
and Rome and England and the New England,
and now the first green shoots are budding into
leaf, if not yet into blossom and fruitage, on our
farther shore. It is here that the latest hopes
of men are centered, and reaching forward to-,
ward a possible fulfillment. But, be it remem-
bered, we are far from the root-sources of growth
and power. It would be easy for this budding

TO ETHEL.

promise to be destroyed, and for the new civil-
ization to be retarded for a century or forever.
Just now, while the air seems full of the electric
tension of free thoughts and brave impulses,
seems the time to insure the happy result. And
to one who believes in his age, who sees that
here, and soon, there might be clearer inspira-
tions than ever before, the question comes with
all the deeper significance : Shall our people be
a people of high intelligence, in a more and
more prosperous country, or a crude, ignorant,
mob -ridden population, in an out of the way,
neglected corner of civilization, visited, like
some barbarous island, for its natural scenery,
and fled from as soon as possible?

If there be any way to determine this ques-
tion, except by insuring beyond a peradvent-
ure the broadest opportunities for education, it
must be by some new way undiscovered as yet
by any nation. Not that there is any mystic
virtue in towering buildings, or apparatus, or
imposing forms ; but there is a virtue in the
gathering together of trained and vigorous in-
tellects, together with the written representa-
tives of such in every age, in all the world's lit-
erature, and bringing within the charmed circle
of their influence a multitude of youth, drawing
them by the gentle persuasions of science and
culture into the good old compact of high serv-
ice to humanity.

There never was a time when a fortune might
do so much for society. Nor is it any visionary
dream that points out its possibilities. The fut-

ure years are surely coming, and their days will
be as plain, common-sense, practical facts as the
Mondays and Tuesdays of the present. Their
suns will rise and set, and the air will still sweep
back and 'forth in its rhythmical tides the breath
of the mountains and the answering breath of
the sea ; and the earth will bear the footprints
of multitudes of men. What shall those multi-
tudes be? A sordid, half -barbarous horde,
wrangling over the contemptible prizes of their
animal existence ? A scattered handful of clean-
lived and thinking men, dragging a vexed life-
time in a population they cannot help? Or a
prosperous, vigorous, intelligent community,
such as already the globe has borne on a few
of its most favored garden spots of civilization ?
One seems to see the question trembling in the
balance of the fates, and, poised above the scale
that bears all our hopes, the golden weight of
some splendid fortune ready to decide the issue.
But, if we are to judge by the past, it is hard-
ly reasonable to expect that wise public use will
be made of our great fortunes in this country.
It is rather the mere dust of the balance, the
slow accumulations of small influences, mote
by mote and grain by grain, that turns the scale
of the fates. And, after all, the best things of
the future will probably come, as the best things
of the past have come, through the sturdy and
patient work, little by little, of many cooperat-
ing brains and hands, each quietly adding to
the common store whatever small help it can.

E. R. SILL.

TO ETHEL.

Who has not seen the scarlet columbine,

That flashes like a flame among the ferns,

Whose drooping bell with rich, warm color burns,
Until its very dew-drops seem like wine?
In thy dark eyes the blossom's soul doth shine,

On thy bright cheek doth live its splendid hue ;

Of all the wild -wood flowers that ever grew,
Thou'rt like but one — the dainty columbine.
So, when the welcome wild -flowers come again

Among the gold, and white, and blue, there'll be
One blossom with a ruby glow, and then,

Gath'ring its brightness, will I think of thee,
For, looking on the treasure that I hold,
I'll see it hides, like thee, a heart of gold.

S. E. ANDERSON.

THE CALIFORNIAN.

OLD CALIFORNIANS.

"In those days there were giants in the land: mighty men of power and renown." — BIBLE.

The cowards did not start to the Pacific
Coast in the old days ; all the weak died on the
way. And so it was that we had then not only
a race of giants, but of gods.

It is to be allowed that they were not at all
careful of the laws, either ancient or modern,
ecclesiastical or lay. They would curse. They
would fight like dogs — aye, like Christians in
battle. But there was more solid honor among
those men than the world will ever see again in
any body of men, I fear, till it approaches the
millennium. Is it dying out with them? I hear
that the new Californians are rather common
cattle.

Do you know where the real old Californian
is? — the giant, the world-builder?

He is sitting by the trail high up on the
mountain. His eyes are dim, and his head is
white. His sleeves are lowered. His pick and
shovel are at his side. His feet are weary and
sore. He is still prospecting. Pretty soon he
will sink his last prospect-hole in the Sierra.

Some younger men will come along, and
lengthen it out a little, and lay him in his grave.
The old miner will have passed on to prospect
the outcroppings that star the floors of heaven.

He is not numerous now; but I saw him last
summer high up on the head-waters of the Sac-
ramento. His face is set forever away from
that civilization which has passed him by. He
is called a tramp now. And the new, nice peo-
ple who have slid over the plains in a palace
car, and settled down there, set dogs on him
sometimes when he comes that way.

I charge you treat the old Californian well
wherever you find him. He has seen more,
suffered more, practiced more self-denial, than
can now fall to the lot of any man.

I never see one of these old prospectors with-
out thinking of Ulysses, and wondering if any
Penelope still weaves and unweaves, and waits
the end of his wanderings. Will any old blind
dog stagger forth at the sound of his voice, lick
his hand, and fall down at his feet ?

Nothing of the sort. He has not heard from
home for twenty years. He would not find
even the hearthstone of his cabin by the Ohio,
should he return. Perhaps his own son, a
merchant prince or the president of a railroad,

is one of the distinguished party in the palace
car that smokes along the plain far below.

And though he may die there in the pines
on the mighty mountain, while still feebly
searching for the golden fleece, do not forget
that his life is an epic, noble as any handed
down from out the dusty eld. I implore you
treat him kindly. Some day a fitting poet will
come, and then he will take his place among
the heroes and the gods.

But there is another old Californian, a wea-
rier man, the successful one. He, too, is getting
gray. But he is a power in the land. He is a
prince in fact and in act. What strange fate
was it that threw dust in the eyes of that old
Californian, sitting by the trail high up on the
mountain, and blinded him so that he could not
see the gold just within his grasp a quarter of a
century ago? And what good fairy was it that
led this other old Californian, now the banker,
the railroad king, or senator, to where the
mountain gnomes had hidden their gold of old?

What accidental beggars and princes we
have in the world to-day? But whether beggar
or prince, the old Californian stands a head and
shoulder taller than his fellows wherever you
may find him. This is a solid, granite truth.

A few years ago a steamer drew into the Bay
of Naples with a lot of passengers, among
whom were a small party of Americans. The
night had been rough and the ship was behind
time. It was ten o'clock already, and no break-
fast. The stingy Captain had resolved to econ-
omize.

A stout, quiet man, with a stout hickory
stick, went to the Captain and begged for a lit-
tle coffee, at least, for his ladies. The Captain
turned his back, fluttered his coat-tails in the
face of the stout, quiet man, and walked up his
deck. The stout, quiet man followed, and still
respectfully begged for something for the
ladies, who were faint with hunger. Then the
Captain turned and threatened to put him in
irons, at the same time calling his officers
around him.

The stout man with the stout stick very
quietly proceeded to thrash the Captain. He
thrashed him till he could not stand ; and then
thrashed every officer that dared to show his

OLD CALIFORNIANS.

face, as well as half the crew. Then he went j
down and made the cook get breakfast.

This was an old Californian, "Dave Colton,"
as we used to call him up at Yreka.

Of course, an act like that was punishable
with death almost. "Piracy on the high seas,"
and all that sort of offense was charged; and I
know not how much gold it cost to heal the
wounded head and dignity of the Captain of the
ship. But this California neither knew the law
nor cared for the law. He had a little party of
ladies with him, and he would not see them go
hungry. He would have that coffee if it cost
him his head.

Dear Dave Colton ! I hear he is dead now.
We first got acquainted one night in Yreka
while shooting at each other.

And what a fearful shooting affair that was !
Many a grizzled old miner of the north still re-
members it all vividly, although it took place
more than a quarter of a century ago. It would
make the most thrilling chapter of a romance,
or the final act of a tragedy.

To crowd a whole book briefly into a few
words, the Yreka miners insisted on using all
the water in Greenhorn Creek by leading it
through a great ditch from Greenhorn over to
Yreka Flats. The Greenhorn miners, about
five hundred strong, held a meeting and re-
monstrated with the miners of Yreka, who
numbered about five thousand. But they were
only laughed at.

So, on the 23d day of February, 1855, they
threw themselves into a body, and marching
down, to a man, they tore out the dam and sent
the water on in its natural channel. I say to a
man, and, I might add, to a boy. For I, the
only boy on Greenhorn, although quietly offici-
ating as cook in the cabin of a party of miners
from Oregon, was ordered to shoulder a pick-
handle by the red -headed leader, Bill Fox, and
fall in line. I ought to admit, perhaps, that I
gladly obeyed — for it flattered me to be treated
as if I were a man, even by this red -headed
Irish bully and desperado.

I remember that on the march to the dam
the quiet, peace-loving men of Quaker procliv-
ities were found still at work. On their declin-
ing to join us, Fox ordered his men to seize
them and bear them along in front ; so that
they should be the first exposed to the bullets
of Yreka.

Had the mob dispersed after destroying the
dam, no blood would have been shed. But,
unfortunately, the Wheeler brothers rolled out
a barrel of whisky, and, knocking in the head,
hung the barrel with tin cups and told the boys
to "pitch in." A fool could have foreseen the
result.

Some worthless fellows got drunk and went
to Yreka, boasting of their work of destruction.
They were arrested by Dave Colton, then Sher-
iff of Siskiyou County, and thrown into prison.
The news of the arrests reached us at Green-
horn about dark, and in half an hour we were
on our way to the county-seat to take the men
out of jail. Some of our own men were half
drunk, others wholly so, and all were wild with
excitement. Nearly all were armed with six-
shooters. We ran forward as we approached
the jail, pistols in hand. Being nimble -footed
and having no better sense, I was among the
first.

Sheriff Colton, who had heard of our coming,
and taken up position in the jail, promptly re-
fused to give up his prisoners without process
of law ; and we opened fire. The Sheriff and
\i\s posse answered back — and what a scatter-
ment ! Our men literally broke down and swept
away board cabins and fences in their flight !
I know of nothing so cowardly as a mob.

But there were some that did not fly. One,
Dr. Stone, the best man of our whole five hun-
dred I think, lay dying in the jail -yard along
with a few others ; and there were men of our
party who would not desert them. The fight
lasted in a loose sort of fashion for hours. We
would fight a while and then parley a while.
We were finally, by some kind of compromise
not found in law books, allowed to go back with
our prisoners and our dead and wounded. This
was known as the " Greenhorn War."

We threw up earthworks on Greenhorn, and
waited for the Sheriff, who had been slightly
wounded, to come out and attempt to make ar-
rests. But he never came. And I never met
him any more till his trouble in Naples. I
wonder how many of us are alive to-day! I
saw the old earthworks only last year. They
are almost leveled now. The brown grass and
weeds covered them. As I climbed the hill to
hunt for our old fortress, a squirrel scampered
into his hole under the wall, while on the high-
est rock a little black lizard basked and blinked
in the sun and kept unchallenged sentinel.

I remember when we came to bury the dead.
The men were mighty sober now. We could
not go to town for a preacher, and so one of our
party had to officiate. That was the saddest
burial I ever saw. The man broke down who
first began to read. His voice trembled so he
could not get on. Then another man took the
Bible and tried to finish the chapter ; but his
voice trembled too, and pretty soon he choked
up and hid his face. Then every man there
cried, I think. They loved Dr. Stone so. He
was a mere boy, yet a graduate, and beautiful
and brave as a Greek of old.

THE CALIFORNIAN.

Ah, these, the dead, are the mighty majority
of old Californians ! No one would guess how
numerous they are. California was one vast
battle-field. The knights of the nineteenth
century lie buried in her bosom; while here
and there, over the mountain -tops, totters a
lone survivor, still prospecting,

"And I sit here, at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine."

There is an older Californian still — "the old-
est inhabitant," indeed. I knew him, a lusty
native, a quarter of a century ago in the impen-
etrable forests and lava beds around the base of
Mount Shasta. He, too, is dead ; dead in spirit
at least, if not altogether in fact.

If valor is a virtue, let us at least concede
that to the red man of the California mount-
ains. There were battles fought here between
the miners and red men before General Canby
was ever heard of. They were bloody battles,
too. But they never got to the ears of the
world. If Captain Jack with his handful of
braves held the United States army at bay for
half a year, you may well understand that we
miners met no boy's play there when these
Indians were numerous and united.

But this "old Californian," as I knew him
there, is utterly extinct. About the fisheries of
the McCloud, and along the stage road on the
head-waters of the Sacramento River, you see
little houses now and then not unlike our min-
ers' cabins of old. There are the homes of the
few remaining Indians of Northern California.
There is a little garden and straggling patches
of corn about the door ; two or three miserable
ponies nibble about the barren hills hard by,
and a withered, wrinkled old squaw or two
grunts under a load of wood or water as she
steps sullen and silent out of the path to let you
pass. And that is about all. Her husband, her
sons, are dead or dying of disease in the dark,
smoky cabin yonder. He accepted the inevit-
able, and is trying to be civilized. Alas ! long
before that point is reached, he will have
joined his fathers on the other side of dark-
ness.

I spent a few weeks at Lower Soda Springs,
near Mount Shasta, last summer, in sight of
our old battle-ground in Castle Rocks, or Cas-
tillo del Diablo, as it was then called. I tried
to find some of the men who had fought in that
little battle. But one white man remained,
Squire Gibson. At the time of this fight, which
took place on the i$th day of June, 1855, he
was married to the daughter of a friendly chief,
and, as he was the only alcalde in all that coun-
ty, was a sort of military as well as civil leader,
and in the battle was conspicuous both for

courage and good sense. He tried to keep me
back and out of danger. He told me that I
was of no account in the fight, and only in the
way. But when I was shot down at his side in
a charge through the chaparral, he took me in
his arms and carried me safely aside. He
cared for me afterward, too, till I got well.
How glad I was to find him still alive ! When
you go up to Soda Springs, jump out of the
stage at Sweetbrier Ranch, only a few miles
this side of Soda, and look him up. Do you
think him an illiterate boor? He is of one of
the best families in New York, a gentleman, and
a scholar.

A few years ago, one of his wealthy sisters
came out to visit the old man from the Eastern
States. From San Francisco she telegraphed
her approach and the probable day of her arri-
val at his mansion.

She came ; but she did not find him. Squire
Gibson had long contemplated prospecting the
rugged summit of an almost inaccessible
mountain. He felt that the time had come
for this work, as his venerable maiden sister,
with all her high ideas of "family," approached.
He called his spouse and his tawny children
about him, bade them take up their baskets and
go high, very high up into the mountains, for
acorns. And the gray old Californian sinched
his little mule till she grunted, tied a pick, pan,
and shovel to the saddle, and so pointed her
nose up the peak, and climbed as if he was
climbing for the morning star.

Squire Gibson, I beg your pardon for drag-
ging your name and your deeds before the
heartless world. Believe me, old friend and
comrade, it is not to trade upon it or fatten my
own vanity. But do you know I have been wait-
ing for ten years for you to die, so that I might
write you up and do you a turn for your kind-
ness to a hair-brained boy more than twenty-
five years ago? It is a fact. But it begins to
look now as if you are going to outlive me ; you
there in the high, pure air, and I here in the
pent-up city. And so I venture to put you in
this sketch, and name you as one of the un-
crowned Californian kings !

I count it rather odd that I should have found
even one man in this region still, after so long
a time, for of all wanderers the Californian is
the veriest nomad upon the face of the earth.
Perhaps it is a bit of that same daring and en-
durance which took him to California that still
leads him on and on and on, through all the
lands and over all the seas; for I have found
him in every quarter of the globe.

And wherever I have found the Californian, I
have found him a leader ; not an obtrusive one,
but a man who, when a man is needed, quietly

OLD CALIFORNIANS.

steps forward, takes hold the helm, and guides
the ship to safety.

Once on the Rhine, between the armies of
France and Germany, I got into great trouble
with the authorities. The military police, who
were arresting everybody they could lay hands
on, had got me into their clutches and were try-
ing to read a whole lot of mixed -up manuscript
which constituted the main part of my luggage,
in order to find out what sort of a man I was ;
for I could not talk a word of either French
or German. I think they must have^been poor-
ly educated, for they could hardly read it. But
they tried and tried with all their might. And
the harder they tried the madder they got ; and
they laid the blame all on to me.

They were about to iron me and march me
off for a spy, when an American stepped up
and laid down the law in a way that made them
open their eyes. He was a Californian, and my
trouble was over. He could not talk a word to
them — no more than I ; but they soon saw that
although he could not talk in any of their six or
seven tongues, he could at least fight in any lan-
guage under the sun.

I am reminded^here of two Californians, who,
short of money and determined to see the Holy
Land, went with Cook, the tourist. They were
the horror of all the staid old orthodox parties,
but in less than a week they were the leaders
of the company.

They wanted to pump out Jacob's Well, and
get down to the bed-rock. They were perfectly
certain it was only a prospect-hole. And when
they came to Mount Sinai they found quartz in-
dications, and declared that all that side of the
mountain from which the tables for the Ten
Commandments were supposed to have been
taken, would pay ten per cent. They pretended
to find plenty of gold in the rock one morning,
and made the whole party believe that they in-
tended to set up a forty-stamp mill, and have it
thundering down that same canon Moses is sup-
posed to have descended with the Laws !

There are many of the wandering children of
the dear old Pacific Coast in art, and at work,
all over the world. I have known as many as
five of the eight or ten theaters in the city of
New York to have either Californian actors or
Californian plays on their boards all at the same
time. And in the army and the navy ! Con-
sider the deeds of the old Californians there.
When one speaks of California, her northern
sister, Oregon, is of course included.

But perhaps it is in the financial world that
the old Californian takes first rank. Yon ele-
vated railroad, that stretches down the streets
of New York, was built and is owned by an ex-
mayor of San Francisco. Down yonder, at the

end of the Island of Manhattan, where the
"bulls" and "bears" guide the finance of the
world, there is one little Californian who stands
next to the head of the class. And if ever Jay
Gould misses a word, this man will spell it, and
turn him down, and take his place.

When Chicago was howling as if it would go
mad at this man for buying the wheat which
she wanted to sell, and paying for it, too, in
good Californian gold, I, who had never seen
him, thought him some six-foot monster who
had stumbled on to a mine and was making a
very bad use of his money. On the contary, he
is not strong, physically, and his face is as re-
fined and sympathetic as a girl's.

Why, there is a whole bookful of good deeds
marked to the credit of this modest little Califor-
nian away up and above the stars, although
he is angry if any one tells of them on earth. I
had rather have his record, notwithstanding
the wrath of Chicago, than that of any pub-
lished philanthropist whose skinny statue stands
in the parks of the world.

Two little facts let me mention. More than
fifty years ago the very brightest of all the young
men of the city of New York married the
daughter of the then wealthiest and most dis-
tinguished of her great merchants. Fifty years
bring changes. This bright young man was no
longer the head of the city. He was no longer
a banker. He was poor, and all his idols lay
broken and behind him. He was still a gentle-
man. But, says the Spaniard, "who is there so
poor as a poor gentleman?"

Well, fifty thousand dollars were handed this
good and worthy old gentleman by this old
Californian, who is not willing to ever let his
own name be published in connection with the
gift.

The other circumstance is of less import to
any one but myself. A new and unskilled deal-
er in stocks, an utter stranger, found himself one
morning routed, "horse, foot, and dragoons."
Half desperate, he rushed down to the old Cal-
ifornian, and asked his advice.

Advice? He gave his advice to this stranger
in the shape of three hundred shares of WTest-
ern Union. These shares in a few days turned
out a profit of nearly three thousand dollars.
And still he will not permit his name to be
mentioned in this connection. Very well; I
will not give you the name of this "old Califor-
nian." Neither will I give you that of the ven-
erable banker who received the fifty thousand
dollars. But I see no reason why you may not
have the name of the embarrassed speculator
who received the three thousand dollars' worth
of "advice." You will find it subscribed at the
end of this rambling sketch.

THE CALIFORNIAN.

Who was ever so generous as is the Old Cal-
ifornian ?

In conclusion, while writing of wealth for a
city where gold has been and is almost a god
in the eyes of many, let me implore you do not
much care for it. Nor would I have you very
much respect those who possess it.

In the first place, the foundations of nearly
all the great fortunes of the Far West have
been almost purely accidental. After that it
became merely a question of holding on to all
you could get. Of course, many threw away
their opportunities there. But remember that
many others gave away all they had to help
others, and are now gray and forgotten in the
mountains, while they might have been to-day
at the head of their fellows in the city.

I know it is hard to teach and to preach
against the traditions and the practices of all
recorded time. But while money may remain
to the end "the root of all evil," I think one
may grow, if not to despise it, certainly not to
worship it. And so it is that I wish to sand-
wich-and wedge in this fact right here. I im-
plore you do not too much admire the rich men
of this rich land, where wealth may be had by
any man who is mean enough to clutch and
hold on tight to it.

I tell you that, in nine cases out of ten, great
acquired wealth lifts up in monumental testi-
mony the meanness of its possessor.

I knew two neighbors, old Californians, who
had about equal fortunes. They were both old
settlers, both rich, and both much respected.
In that fearful year, 1852, when the dying and
destitute immigrants literally crawled on hands
and knees over the Sierra trying to reach the
settlements, one of these men drove all his cat-
tle up to the mountains, butchered them, and
fed the starving. He had his Mexicans pack

all the mules with flour, which at that time cost
almost its weight in gold, and push on night
day over the mountains to meet the strangers
there and feed them, so that they might have
strength to reach his house, where they could
have shelter and rest.

The other man, cold and cautious, saw his
opportunity and embraced it. He sat at home
and sold all his wheat and mules and meat, and
with the vast opportunities for turning money
to account in that new country soon became
almost a prince in fortune.

But his generous neighbor died a beggar in
Idaho, where he had gone to try to make an-
other fortune. He literally had not money
enough to buy a shroud ; and as he died among
strangers, by the roadside, he was buried with-
out even so much as a pine board coffin.

I saw his grave there only last year. Some
one had set up a rough granite stone at the
head. And that is all. No name — not even a
letter or a date. Nothing. But that bowlder
was fashioned by the hand of Almighty God,
and in the little seams and dots and mossy
scars that cover it He can read the rubric that
chronicles the secret virtues of this lone dead
man on the snowy mountains of Idaho.

The children of the "Prince" are in Paris.
Upheld by his colossal wealth their lives seem
to embrace the universal world. He is my
friend. He buys all my books, and reads every
line I write. When he comes to this sketch he
will understand it. And he ought to under-
stand, too, that all the respect, admiration, and
love which the new land once gave these two
men gathers around and is buried beneath that
moss-grown granite stone; and that I know,
even with all his show of splendor, that his
heart is as cold and as empty as that dead
man's hand. JOAQUIN MILLER.

A HOMELY HEROINE.

The early Spanish designation of the south-
eastern part of San Francisco, Potrero, mean-
ing pasture-ground, still clings to that portion
of the city — no longer fitly. The pick-ax has
laid bare the bowels of its rolling hills, and
blasting powder has bitten into them, leaving
unsightly scars. Knoll after knoll has been
beaten into fine, ashen dust, and scattered along
the highway now called Potrero Avenue. This
fine, ashen dust rides on the high winds in des-
olate gray clouds, seen through which the sky
is no longer blue nor the sunshine golden.

On the high winds ride, also, insupportable
odors ravished from drying pelts, from heaps of
offal, from stagnant ponds, from exposed rills of
sewerage. These the wind catches up to bear
away; but, like a scavenger's cart, leaks putres-
cence as it rolls.

More than a quarter of a century ago, the
earliest preemptors there found one settler oc-
cupying before them : an old man — his air so
wonted to his surroundings that he might have
been accepted as a veritable Potrero autoch-
thon.

A HOMELY HEROINE.

Dry winds and beating sun had made his
complexion as brown as the redwood shanty he
tenanted, or the arid slope upon which it
perched. This, his shriveled cheek, his shrewd
eye, and his lonely life, surrounded him with
mystery, and encouraged speculation. He had
never been known to seek human society.
Though neither gruff nor surly, when address-
ed, he was uncommunicative. The following is
a transcript of an attempted conversation.
Time, 1852; place, near old Tom's cabin:

"Hallo, Hardman! Fine weather, this."
Such was the neighbor's cautious beginning.

With unexpected cordiality: "Mighty han'-
some."

"You are a very old resident here, eh?" —
more boldly.

Tom had just illumined his evening pipe, and,
as it obstinately refused to draw, it required his
absorbed attention.

"At least"— the silence becoming discourag-
ing— "people say as much."

" So?" — with a passing gleam of interest.

"Yes," more briskly, "you've a fine piece of
property."

Puff, puff, puff; pipe drawing; facial ex-
pression profoundly serious.

"Hope your title is sound. You derive it
from a Mexican grant, the Micheltorena, I be-
lieve ? At any rate, you've held undisputed pos-
session ever since '43, or was it '45?"

Puff, puff, puff.

"I say," very loudly, with sudden suspicion
that the man might be hard of hearing, " I hope
your title is sound," etc.

Without removing his pipe: "Fraudulous
(puff) titles (puff) is a plenty."

"By the way, how many varas are there on
this slope?"

As yet, Hardman had built no fences. He
might own the whole hill-side, or a very small
portion of it ; the question was designed to clear
up this hidden matter.

"Well, I " Hardman began slowly; but

the sentence ended in smoke.

The neighbor made another effort: "I'd like
to own from the creek to the brow of the hill."

"How?"

Impatient repetition of the sentence.

"Accordin' to the lay of the land, them's the
nateral bound'ries."

"East and west" — sarcastically — "I suppose
you'll grab all you can?"

"Potrery (puff) property'll be worth (puff,
puff) suthin' one of these days."

The interviewer retired discomfited, and Tom
Hardman's private affairs were left to conject-
ure. Feminine gossip, however, made sure of
one thing : he was an old bachelor.

VOL. III.- 4.

Wrong again. When a farther slope began
to boast of three or four redwood cabins, Tom
Hardman's was suddenly enlivened by the pres-
ence of a woman and two buxom children.

This change in his mode of life was the fore-
runner of other changes. The shanty was im-
mediately enlarged and whitewashed ; some ad-
ditions, of rude, home contrivance, were made
to the scanty furniture; fences were built, and
a stately goose and gander began daily journeys
to and from that charming estuary, Mission
Creek.

Then, just as one would naturally suppose
that old Tom Hardman had planned to live
after some domestic, if not social sort, he dis-
appeared.

By this time the settlement of an indefinite
region over the hill had been accomplished by
a half-dozen families, whose common prejudices
resulted in a strong local sentiment condemna-
tory of Mrs. Hardman.

She was by them dubbed "Old Mother
Dutchy," a sobriquet which derived its appro-
priateness from her mongrel speech. Of stur-
dy build, and indomitable activity, she was a
scourge to all prowlers, in whom she saw possi-
ble squatters. But the popular fancy pictured
her, armed with any available weapon, perpetu-
ally lying in wait for whoever might set foot on
her land, on whatever errand.

According to Larry Cronin's story, she could
be guilty of gratuitous outrage.

Sent one morning in search of a stray goat,
this promising youth did not return until after
nightfall, and he did straightway depose (tremb-
ling before the paternal rod) that for daring to
peep through "Ould Mother Dutchy's" gate, he
had been by her seized, beaten with many
stripes, and incarcerated in a chicken-house.
Reliable witnesses, however, were found to tes-
tify to his pugilistic presence in the Mission on
that very day ; but such was the prevailing cast
of thought that his figment was often quoted as
fact. Had Mrs. Hardman used him as he said,
she might have considered herself justified.

In lieu of more refined diversions, the juve-
niles of those rude slopes — the dauntless Larry
at their head — were wont to indulge in impish
tantalism. What bliss to haunt Thady Finne-
gan's dog kennels, and to lash the chained and
savage brutes up to impotent fury by their an-
tics! Or to troop over the hill, and, climbing
Mrs. Hardman's fence, to dance and gibber
there in thrilling expectation of provoking her
to a raid, which their lively young legs were
sure to render fruitless ! Sometimes they went
so far as to throw stones at her.

On a foggy evening in October, 1853, a Mrs.
O'Dennis, as well known in those parts as Mrs.

THE CALIFORNIAN.

Hardman herself, was entertaining a few neigh-
bors with gossip and whisky punch — the latter
served in a battered tin pan.

A rude sign -board, nailed crookedly across
the outer surface of her door, proclaimed her
the pioneer trader of the Potrero. It read:

"GROSS. RIS.

& LIQR' KEP BY MISES. TIMTHY
O DENNIS ON DRAF."

The store and dwelling were in one room.
Of this, fully a third was taken up by the bar.
A rough carpenter's bench served as a counter,
and was raised to a practicable hight by divers
contrivances not unsuggestive of reckless in-
genuity. Three bricks propped one leg, a can-
dle-box another, a cobble-stone the third, and
a cracked iron pot, reeking with grease and
soot, the fourth. A counter by day, by night
the bench was turned upside down, and con-
verted into a legless four-poster, wherein did
repose Mrs. O'Dennis's niece, Miss Hannah
McArdle. The rest of the family, numbering six
souls, occupied two dirty straw mattresses,
spread on the bare floor.

To return to that foggy, convivial evening :
The four O'Dennis children had been uncere-
moniously huddled into bed. The guests sat
around a rickety table, dipping by turns into
the steaming lake of whisky and water. To eke
out a limited supply of heterogeneous drinking
vessels, Tim O'Dennis had possessed himself of
a tin funnel used in doling out molasses. By
closing the nozzle with his thumb, and a leak in
the seam with his forefinger, he did such bibu-
lous execution as to excite envy.

"Shure, ye'd betther shtop the hole wid yer
mout', Timmy," exclaimed Patsey Cronin, father
of the mendacious Larry, "an3 let some wan
pour a shtiddy shtrame down yer troat. Be-
gorra, the resht of us shtand no show alongside
yez."

But to this Mrs. O'Dennis, busily plying a
broken shaving -mug, loudly and profanely ob-
jected. To speak mildly, this woman was
neither an honor to her adopted country nor
an ornament to her sex. Her bloated and burn-
ing cheeks told of ceaseless alcoholic fires within
and blear eyes, constantly running over, suggest-
ed vents for the steam thereby engendered.

"Hould yer divil iv a clatther," she ejaculated,
in tones of husky pleasantry. "Is there e'er a
wan iv yez has heard anny worrd yit iv that
ould nut, Tommy Harrdman?"

"Wirra, wirra!" moaned a voice of intro-
spective melancholy; "an3 he wint away a week
before me poor Ellen (God resht her sowl), an'
she all holly wid her insides shpit up."

The speaker was Larry Cronin's grandmoth-
er, a little, wizened octogenarian. Her palsied
head, and the frill of an "ould bordhery cap"
adorning it, shook as if in incessant negation.

"Sure, it's small comfort Ellen was to me
this manny a day,'3 retorted Patsey Cronin.
"Begorra, where's the since iv shpilin' a festive
occasion by the talk iv her?"

And he leered at Hannah McArdle, as if ex-
pecting her approval.

"D-d-divil a worrd has anny wan heard iv
ould Tommy," cried Tim O'Dennis, in his hur-
ried and stuttering brogue. "An3 shure, I'm
b-beginnin3 to think we'll lay no eye till him be-
tune now an' Joodgmint Day. If Tommy was
aloive, forty yoke iv oxen cudn't keep him off
the Potrery so long, an3 do yez moind that?
A-an3 is it a-an ould n-nut yez call him, Biddy?
Och, thin, 3twould t-take the d- devil to crack
his shell, for a tough one it is, I'm thinkin'.'3

"An3, begorra," Mrs. O'Dennis burst out, with
a hoarse laugh, "if the ould nut is cracked, as
Timmy says, it's that murtherin' haythen wum-
mun has done it, or may I choke wid the lie.
Not one shtep has he gone away. She's cut
him intil six quarthers an' drowndid him in the
wather down below. O-och-hone ! poor Tom-
my— an3 he not shtook up above buyin3 his piece
of 'baccy iv dacent folks.3'

Mrs. O'Dennis bore Mrs. Hardman a partic-
ular grudge for not encouraging local enter-
prise. The latter had thus far avoided the store.

"May I dhrink ditch -wather the rimnant iv
me days," said Mr. Thady Finnegan, jocosely,
"jbut I'd enj'y takin3 'Thady Finnegan3 over the
hillj for a little shport." A tall, cross-eyed
man, with a wiry red goatee, his business in life
was the breeding of savage dogs for the pit. Of
these, "Thady Finnegan33 was at once his name-
sake and his pride.

Tickled by this humorous suggestion, Mrs.
O'Dennis fell into a paroxysm of laughter.
Husky chuckles, beginning in her fat throat,
rapidly descended until lost in unfathomable
recesses of her rotundity.

"D-don't yez think," exclaimed Tim, alarmed
by her suspended breath and starting eye-balls,
"as how I'd b-betther fetch her out iv that wid
a shwot iv m-me fisht? Shure, she m-moight
have a fit."

Mrs. McNamara suggested a sprinkling with
cold water as a specific "ag'in fits;33 but Patsey
Cronin pinned his faith by the strongest of
oaths to a "soop o3 whusky."

In the conflict of opinions, no active meas-
ures were taken. As soon as Mrs. O'Dennis
could recover her voice, she used it to ask Tirn,
angrily, why he was making such a "shtook,
shtarin3 fool33 of himself.

A HOMELY HEROINE.

Mrs. McNamara hastily interposed in the in-
terests of connubial peace.

"Poor Tommy Harrdman ! Some man ought
to go an' ax Mother Dutchy is he dead or aloive."

"Begorra, who's betther to be shpared for
that same expedition than yez, Granny?" ex-
claimed her son-in-law, with a brutal laugh,
and again ogling Hannah. "That ould, shakin'
shkull iv yours might's well be cracked be
Mother Dutchy as another, an' betther airly
than late. When yez are provided for, there'll
be the full iv the mug for me an' some wan I
have in me eye."

"Musha, will yez list till that for a haythin,"
cried Hannah, blushing. "An' Ellen not dead
three weeks ! "

"Begorra," added Tim, "it's a shmall sup
anny wan gits iv anny mug whin yez are by,
P-patsey. Much less the likes iv Mrs. Mc-
N-namara, wid her shkin shtickin' all in -wrin-
kles till her b-bones."

There was a general laugh, at Cronin's ex-
pense, which Mrs. O'Dennis interrupted.

"If I should go over the hill mesilf, as don't
care that," snapping her fingers viciously, "for
ould Mother Dutchy's clubs an' cracks, do yez
think she'd be afther tellin' me the trewt fore-
nint hersilf?"

"D-divil a-a-a bit," said Tim, promptly."

"Be the howly .Moses," shouted Finnegan,
"Thady wud discuss the matther "

"Och, if wanst I lay a good grip till her troat,
I'll be betther nor a bull-dog mesilf," exclaimed
Mrs. O'Dennis, falling into another fit of laugh-
ter, which was cut short by a loud, distinct rap-
ping at the door.

There was something ominous in the sound.
No visitors were expected. No customers were
likely to come at so late an hour.

Two children, who had been awake enjoying
the conversation, took instant fright. In a quak-
ing voice, Mrs. O'Dennis bade Tim not to an-
swer the summons.

"Arrah, what's on yez, Biddy?" he replied,
assuming a manly superiority to fear. "Some
poor ghost is afther shmellin' the hot shtuff,
passin' by, an' shtops to beg a dhrop."

He marched to the door and threw it open.
He instantly recoiled in undisguised alarm.
Awaiting no invitation, a woman stepped heav-
ily over the threshold.

Conny and Katy O'Dennis redoubled their
terrified screams. Their recognition of those
heavy shoulders, that vigilant gray head — nay,
the purple of a cheap print gown — was instanta-
neous.

Having been over the hill on diversion bent
that very day, they conceived Mrs. Hardman's
errand one of vengeance dire.

"Bad cess to thim divil's brats," gasped Mrs.
O'Dennis, quite beside herself with terror and
the screams, to which were now added those of
a young babe. "Go to thim, Tim, man, and
crack their heads ag'in the flure."

The unwelcome intruder stood soberly near
the door, glancing first toward the mattress
and then toward the table. If she realized that
she was the cause of the shrill outcries on the
one hand, or the electrified silence on the other,
she gave no sign.

"I was gome," she said, composedly, in a
voice of somewhat heavy quality, "fer dot ret
bepper."

"Red pepper is it!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Den-
nis, showing vast relief. "I'm afther thinkin' —
shtick your fisht down Katy's troat, will yez,
Tim? — that I have wan bottle iv the shtuff."

She rolled out of her chair, and, keeping an
uneasy eye on her customer, picked up the
infant and silenced him at her breast. Hold-
ing him carelessly on one arm she hastily rum-
maged among some fly- specked bottles and pa-
pers spread across a dirty shelf. In vain.

Mr. Hardman quietly turned to leave.

"Sure, mum," Mrs. O'Dennis called out, un-
willing to let so rare an opportunity slip, "how
is it we niver see no more iv the ould man what
owns yez?"

Mrs. Hardman paused in the doorway to look
back. There was nothing forbidding in her
manner. Still, a certain steadiness of eye,
coupled with a laconic gravity of tongue, duly
impressed her observers.

There was a moment's silence, through which
the babe was heard drawing vigorous suste-
nance from the maternal fount of ignorance and
vice. Then Mrs. Hardman said, deliberately :

"Dom he is down to Podro Wolley."

"To where?"

"ToPod-roWol-ley."

Mrs. O'Dennis became instantly apologetic.

"No offinse intinded. Shure I take it a pity
iv me not to have the pepper for yez. The
firsht time yez have been in the shtore, too !
Was yez afther wantin' the shtuff for anything
spicial?"

"Fer Zhag."

"Is it the b'y, Jack, yez mane? What's on
him ! I seen him pass the day."

"Pains," returned Mrs. Hardman, with a pro-
foundly speculative air, and putting a hand to
her throat to indicate their locality. " It's dot
neurolchy."

Before another question could be asked, she
was gone. Her brief and incomprehensible re-
plies had aroused fresh dislike. Mrs. O'Den-
nis complained bitterly that she "twishted her
tongue" so that no "dacent Christm" could un-

THE CALIFORNIAN.

derstand her. Tim suggested that "P-podro
Wolley," for all he knew to the contrary, might
be Dutch for "P-purgathory ;" while Mr. Fin-
negan, excitedly invoking the author of the Pen-
tateuch, implored him to "shpake the word or
give the wink" and he and "Thady" would take
a "thrip over the hill."

Mrs. O'Dennis's malicious assertion in regard
to old Tom and the "wather down below,"
bore fruit. Startled by the mere suspicion of a
crime having been committed, the neighbor-
hood speedily settled into an enjoyable convic-
tion that the supposition must be true. A sin-
ister light was thus thrown upon Mrs. Hard-
man's errand to the store. Had either of her
children made sudden departure from the world,
no one would have doubted that red pepper
played an important part in the tragedy.

Instead of such news, however, other news
came — in a letter from a Mr. Penniford to his
wife. The latter, who held herself superior to
the "low, drunken Irish" around her, did, nev-
ertheless, deal at the store. Immediately after
reading that Tom Hardman was alive and well,
she discovered that she was out of vinegar.

"My husband seen him himself," she explain-
ed volubly, as Mrs. O'Dennis was filling her
pint measure, "down in Pajaro Valley, a-squat-
tin' onto a powerful mossel of land as still as a
spinx!"

One evening, soon after, Larry Cronin rushed
excitedly into the shop, which was the best mar-
ket for any rumor, however idle. He had been
hunting ducks by the creek, and on his way
home had seen such and such things, breath-
lessly recounted.

Other listeners dropping in, the story was re-
peated with still more zest. Calls were made
for instant and organized effort to solve the
mystery. But no joint action was taken : secret
disintegrating motives were at work. If old
Hardman was in the habit of visiting thePotrero
furtively for the hiding of treasure, let him un-
earth the spoils whose wit was keenest.

The belief that their recluse neighbor had
struck rich diggings in Pajaro gained fascinat-
ing ascendancy over some minds, and a deal of
independent prowling was indulged in. After a
month's patient watching, two men simultane-
ously discovered the stealthy light which Larry
Cronin had described. As in his graphic re-
cital, it wandered here and there across the
Hardman place, and then kept close along the
fence. When it settled into a dull, steady glow,
the watchers (utterly unconscious of each other)
crawled toward it from different directions. By
the beam of the same lantern, which illumined
Tom Hardman's diligent spade, they stared into
one another's blank faces.

Mr. Finnegan put finger to lip, and Patsey
Cronin shut an eye — by these signs silently
agreeing to divide the spoils.

There were no spoils to divide. The two
would-be thieves crouched and listened and
watched. By all they heard and saw, the old
man was guiltless of any wealth save the brown
clods of earth to which he clung so tenaciously.
His journeys hither were merely to make sure
that all was going well with his family and his
property. His wandering lantern meant thor-
ough inspection of the fences; his digging, the
setting up of a few posts blown awry by the
wind.

The year wore on toward its close. In De-
cember— and a bitter cold December it was for
California! — old Hardman came home in his
usual unexpected fashion, toward nightfall, on a
way-worn mustang; but not on his usual er-
rand.

After a long frustration of the neighborhood's
desperate craving for excitement, he had re-
lented. It was characteristic of the man's stub-
born resolution that he had abandoned his dis-
tant post only when convinced that a long,
lingering illness was about to terminate fatally;
and that he had endured the rough travel in his
suffering condition.

He went from saddle to bed. Inflammation
set in and did its work expeditiously. In twen-
ty - four hours, he breathed his last. Patsey Cro-
nin had been to the Mission that day. Coming
back, he met Jack Hardman near the little
bridge. The lad's eyes were swollen with weep-
ing.

"What's on yez?" asked Patsey, who made
sure that his mother had beaten him and that
he was running away from home.

"Daddy's dead," said Jack with a fresh out-
burst of grief, "an' I'm a-goin' for the under-
taker."

This intelligence being hastily carried to Pat-
sey's neighbors, the women got together and
held consultation, the result of which was that
they crossed the dividing ridge of land and of
sentiment in a body, and walked slowly down
hill toward the widow's cabin. There were
Mrs. Penniford, Mrs. Cronin (formerly Hannah
McArdle), Mrs. McNamara, her negatory cap-
frill busier than ever, and last, but far from
least, Mrs. O'Dennis.

In view of a death, there is an awe -struck
state of mind which can only be appeased by
full particulars. Patsey had been able to give
none. Wondering and speculating, the visitors
solemnly entered Mrs. Hardman's gate, and
proceeded toward her door. They shuddered
as they knocked there, in half enjoyable antic-
ipation of entering upon a dramatic scene of

A HOMELY HEROINE.

woe. Patsey Cronin's elaborate description of
Jack Hardman's grief prepared them for some-
thing really sensational. Disappointment in-
stantly flashed upon them in a rosy, cheerful
face — Jack's face. With the elasticity of youth
and superb health, the boy had recovered from
his first horror and sorrow. Julia Hardman, a
girl of twelve, was smiling too. It was enough
to scandalize anybody, Mrs. Penniford after-
ward declared; and Biddy O'Dennis, who was
a very demon for temper, said she never "lay
eyes till such harrd-hearted haythin."

Mrs. Hardman soon showed herself. There
was an air of settled, almost dogged, compo-
sure on her strong -featured face. Whatever
the nature of those feelings that had held her
so long apart from her neighbors, she accepted
their visit at such a time calmly.

"You wout like to zee Dom?" she asked.
A murmured assent arose. She led the way
to a small bed-room. Old Hardman lay on the
little cot where he had died. She reverently
uncovered his dark, wrinkled face, the shrewd-
ness gone out of it forever. After the wont of
her kind, Mrs. O'Dennis blubbered; and Mrs.
McNamara, in memory of her own affliction,
raised a long, soulless quaver — the Irish cry.
Mrs. Hardman placed chairs for her visitors,
and took one herself. She had made no at-
tempt at mourning attire. Her purple print
gown had been newly washed and ironed ; her
scant gray hair was neatly brushed. Mrs. Pen-
niford asked of the dead man's disease, and she
answered as best she could.

"My Dom," she began, wiping a slow, large
hand across her nose and lips while dividing a
mournful, sidelong gaze between Mrs. Penni-
ford and the stark face beside her, "my Dom
he wasn't he's zelf when he wend away dot last
time to Podro. No, he wasn't he's zelf. Zhule
he remembers dot he's fader wasn't not all
right."

"Zhule he" referred to her daughter, Julia.
One of the most marked peculiarities of Mrs.
Hardman's diction was the use of superfluous
pronouns, always of the masculine gender.

"But he never gomblained, dough I zayt to
Zhag, 'I kin zee you fader's got anodderturn of
dot neurolchy.' "

Be it said that, with Mrs. Hardman, "dot
neurolchy" was an active and malignant agent
in all bodily distresses not caused by visible
wounds; nay, after the latter, "dot neurolchy"
was almost sure to set in.

"My Dom he coot fight zigness, but dot neu-
rolchy fedged him at last." She ended with a
tear on her cheek, and, sighing deeply, drooped
forward in her favorite posture, with a heavy
hand resting on either knee.

Mrs. Penniford's thin head -voice became
slightly didactic :

" You say he died of neurology : what was
the seat of the disease?"

Mrs. Hardman lifted her pale countenance,
the tear yet on her cheek, to meet her question-
er's eye.

"Dot neurolchy," she replied, carefully weigh-
ing her words, "was inside him."

No physician ever expressed, in any language,
profounder belief in his own diagnosis.

"Ochone!" broke in Mrs. O'Dennis, with a
wild disregard of truth, "it's a bee-utiful corpse
he makes, mim."

"Arrah, how much he must have suffered
wid that — neurolchy," said Mrs. McNamara,
very softly.

"He dit zuffer," Mrs. Hardman answered, as
softly, turning toward the old woman. "Fer
two days I t'ought he di'n't know me. But
zhoost before he died he wake up und zayt : * Dot
landt, Mart'a. Keep holt him. Don'da give
up dot landt, Mart'a.' "

This sudden revelation of what had been the
ruling passion of Tom Hardman's life caused a
deal of after comment. Belief was that Mrs.
Hardman had forgotten her habitual reserve in
a moment of retrospection.

Her husband put in quiet possession of a last
modest square of mother earth, the widow pre-
pared herself to battle, if need be, for her rights.
Never had her like been seen in the dull
chambers of the Probate Court. Without ex-
pressing aggressiveness, she stood out before
men's eyes a stern, vigilant, stubborn fact, ar-
rayed in scant, though decent, black, her square
throat innocent of any collar, and her feet
thrust into heavy masculine boots, that added
weight, if not dignity, to her step.

No callow underlings or busy lawyers hustled
her, as they are wont to hustle the poor Irish
widow with her apologetic manners and counte-
nance corrugated by anxiety. An opinion pre-
vailed that she carried an expostulator of for-
midable caliber in the leg of her right boot.

As somebody laughingly remarked afterward,
she eyed the clerk mumbling the oath before her
much as a self-conscious rooster eyes a strange
bug sprawling helplessly under his scratching
claw.

Her shrewd, "What's dot you zay?" startled
that limp functionary into decent explanatory
English.

The Judge, asking the ordinary routine ques-
tions touching the property left by the deceased,
was struck by her clear and explicit replies.
For a woman — and one who could not write
her name — her command of dates and dimen-
sions was remarkable.

THE CALIFORNIA!?.

Before joining her husbancTupon the Potrero,
it seems that she had held possession of a piece
of property at North Beach. This was now
leased to a relative, who had pledged himself
to defend it from lawless encroachment. Ac-
cording to the high hopes then cherished of the
future of real estate in San Francisco, this land
alone would make Mrs. Hardman rich. The
dreariest pessimist only, if such existed in Cali-
fornia's golden days, foresaw that the collapse
in rents and values, which began late in '53, was
to be in a measure final.

Mrs. Hardman's attorney rather plumed him-
self upon having so singular a client.

" She is apprehensive of but one creature on
the face of the earth," he said, laughingly dis-
cussing her with his brother lawyers — "a squat-
ter. I pity a bird of that feather who lights on
her land. There'll be no red tape about her
writ of ejectment, but there will be considera-
ble cold lead."

"Zhoost to dinks, Zhag," lamented this hard
and blood-thirsty creature, sitting dejectedly at
home after her first day in court, "dot I should
live to hear you fader galled Dhomas Hartman,
diseased!"

The ice having been broken between Mrs.
Hardman and her neighbors, the women, 'at
least, took occasion to visit her now and again.
Never inhospitable, she did not enter into the
spirit of their voluble gossip, but would sit a
little apart, watching and listening with an air
of speculation, putting in a sober word at times.
Jack invariably took his overpowering blushes
into the corner remotest from the guests, and
there gaped or grinned in dumb enjoyment of
the noise and company. One evening, how-
ever; he forgot himself in a loud laugh over
some vulgar witticism of Mrs. O'Dennis, and
drew upon himself the lavish compliments of
that huge dame.

"Och, it's a foine b'y yez have there, Mrs.
Harrdman," cried she, with her blear eyes fixed
upon Jack, and her throat full of husky chuck-
les. "There ain't his match betune here an'
the Plazy. Begorra, if I wasn't tied to Timmy,
I'd be afther havin' Jack mesilf, or may I choke
wid the lie."

At fifteen, the lad was, indeed, a splendid
young giant, and his mother was proud of him.
But Mrs. O'Dennis's language offended her, the
more because she noted how eagerly Jack was
swallowing it. So she came to the rescue, ad-
ministering the following curt sentences as a
corrective to nauseous flattery :

"Dere's boys," she said, dividing a sidelong
glance between her son and Mrs. O'Dennis,
"und dere's men. Und dere's dem ain't neider
boys nor men. I galls 'em fools !"

But one inference was possible. Still, Jack
did not take it to heart. What with Mrs. O'Den-
nis's praises and his mother's severity, he fairly
perspired with delight.

Later, when the visitors were going, Mrs.
Hardman became so far confidential as to an-
nounce her proposed departure for that long-
time mysterious region, "Podro Wolley," her
object being to see to her property there.

"You'll be afther lavin' Jack to take care iv
this place, I suppose?" inquired Mrs. O'Dennis.

That was his mother's intention.

"An' a tough wan he'll be, begorra, for the
squatthers, if they thry to handle him !" she ex-
claimed, gazing upon him admiringly, as he
lingered in the background.

"There's enough of them squatters — wolves,
I call 'em — around," said Mrs. Penniford, who
always encouraged exciting topics of conversa-
tion. "Pap says there was three men killed to-
day on Third Street, defendin' their land."

Mrs. Hardman was moved by this story. It
was Third Street to-day ; it might be the Po-
trero to-morrow. Whoever owned a bit of
ground in those times must face the possibility
of being called upon to surrender it.

Mother and son left alone (Julia had been
sent to North Beach immediately after the fu-
neral), the former sat pondering. Jack dutifully
waited, knowing that she had something on her
mind. Presently the woman lifted her pale, de-
termined countenance upon him, and delivered
the following quaint homily':

"Zhag, we must all die once in a while. We
zhenerally goes by degrees."

She meant one by one.

"Zome he gids a zigness. Zome he goes an-
odder ways. Dot neurolchy fedges a plenty.
It fedged your fader. If we live long enough,
it will fedge me und you. When it's a queztion
of proberty, Zhag," shaking a solemn finger and
head at him, "when it's a queztion of proberty,
why zhoost dinks dot bistol palls don'd hurt no
worzer dan dot neurolchy, nohow. You fader
he zayt, 'Don'da give up dot landt !' "

The next day, the widow set forth on her
lonely journey. The winter had been one of
unusual bitterness. The March heavens had
poured forth a flood of waters upon the melting
snow. Dry gulches became the beds of brawl-
ing rivers. Stage roads were impassable.

Often through driving rain, always through
mud and slime, sometimes in a rough country
cart, oftener afoot, and once up to her neck wad-
ing a treacherously swollen creek, Mrs. Hard-
man went on her determined way.

An odor of the grave clung to the shanty
which her husband had left to go to his death-
bed. The roof leaked like a sieve ; she mended

A HOMELY HEROINE.

it as best she could. The rude brush fences
were blown flat in some places ; she set them
up again. This done, and a sheep -herder found
who would hold possession for her in return for
pasturage, she set out on her homeward journey.

By the time she reached San Josd, the storm
had blown over, and the stage was about to
start for San Francisco.

This rude conveyance set her down not far
distant from the little bridge at the foot of Cen-
ter Street, now Sixteenth.

Rolling softly to right and left, their dusty
hopelessness passed utterly away and forgotten
in an ecstasy of living green, the Potrero hills
rose before her joyful vision. The outcropping
rocks were thickly mossed. Little rills trickled
down in the rejoicing hollows.

Ten days of incredible toil had told upon the
woman's tough strength. She looked on long-
ingly toward the four walls so dear to her. The
smoke curling upward in faint, peaceful plumes,
suggested that Jack was preparing the evening
meal. She thought of her purple gown, well
starched and clean, awaiting her, and could
scarce endure for another moment the clinging
of her wet, bedraggled skirts. Plodding on
sturdily, she reached the western fence. A
dark, bulky figure was crouching in a hollow
there. It started up hurriedly.

"Zhag!" she said, sharply. Her son burst
into tears of boyish rage and grief. She gazed
at him, and then turned her face toward the four
peaceful walls and curling smoke blankly.

"Three men are there !" gasped Jack answer-
ing her dumb query. "That over the

hill is at the bottom of it."

"Mrs. O'Dennis?"

He nodded as he went on passionately.

"She came two nights after you left. To see
how I was gettin' on, she said. When she was
startin' home she axed would I go along of her.
I went into the shop. She gave me suthin' to
drink. An' that was all I knowed."

He paused, choked by a great, helpless sob.
His mother listened without any comment.
Sturdy determination was resuming its wonted
control of her wearied limbs. Her head was
alert, her eye clear. A weather-beaten end of
ribbon fluttering from her bonnet, caught up by
a sudden chill air, snapped sharply against her
cheek. She neither heard nor felt it.

"When I come to, I was layin' out in the
rain. I suspicioned suthin'. I got up an' ran
home. There was a light in the winder — I
hadn't left any, an' I heard men talkin'. My
gun was standin' at the head of my bed. I
couldn't do nothin'."

Mrs. Hardman's eyes traveled involuntarily
in the direction of her home once more. A

white, long line of geese — she had raised them
herself and loved them — was winding slowly
up -hill from the creek. She murmured softly,
" Dem bretty goozes !" as if grieved that they
did not seem to miss her. It was her sole sign
of weakness, Her next words were harsh :

"Do dem people dinks I will give up dot
landt?"

Within the half hour, she was talking to a
carpenter on Mission street. All night long,
there issued from this man's shop sounds of saw
and hammer, busily creaking, busily beating.
Mrs. Hardman and Jack worked side by side.

The light of early morning revealed the floor
of a new cabin ready laid, and its walls went up
bravely. By midday, the roof was on ; by three
o'clock in the afternoon, it stood completed;
at .four, it was going along Center street on
wheels.

The carpenter and two teamsters where chiv-
alrously pledged to set it on the widow's land.

So rough and broken was the road that at
times the shanty rattled and reeled, and once
had nearly fallen. A few additional planks be-
ing laid at the bridge, the precious burden was
gotten safely over the creek. On the hill slopes
progress was necessarily slow ; but, at length,
the desecrated home came into view. As if in
mockery of Mrs. Hardman's trouble, the smoke
still peacefully curled over the roof.

Reaching the western fence (through which a
way must be broken), without any sign that the
occupants of the cabin had observed them, brief
council was held. It was believed that the un-
avoidable noise would bring the robbers out of
doors. All stood on the alert, Jack took the
ax and his mother gave the signal. At the
stout blows, rails went crashing down ; but their
fears were not justified. Only a window in the
distant shanty was hastily raised, and Dodd, the
carpenter, was struck by a spent ball.

One of the teamsters — a violent fellow —
abused the squatters roundly and dared them
to come out. Mrs. Hardman ordered him to
drive on.

It was pitch dark before a foundation had
been hastily leveled in the hillside and the new
shanty set there in a position to command the
old. This done, the woman sturdily bade her
helpers to go back quietly to their homes, and
leave her to defend her own.

She listened as long as she could hear the
retreating voices of her friends. Satisfied that
they had retired without any warlike demon-
stration, she shut the door of her little fort.
Jack sat on the floor with his back against it.
Her station was at the one small window.

They had neither light nor fire. A raw, blus-
tering wind beat itself frantically about the

THE CALIFORN1AN.

shanty, as if enraged at the new obstruction to
its free sweep across the slope. In spite of the
coarse blankets provided by their sympathiz-
ers, it was bitterly cold. The darkness was omi-
nous and appalling. Out of it the woman would
whisper at intervals, "Zhag?" and the boy would
answer, "I'm awake, mother."

The hours dragged so heavily that it may
have been no later than midnight, when a sharp
exclamation roused Jack from an uneasy doze.

"What do you hear, mother?"

"Listen."

He heard, too. A sound so faint it might
have been the crowing of a distant cock expect-
ant of morning ; but, gradually drawing nearer
and nearer, there were human tones.

"Mother," he whispered, excitedly, "good rea-
son the squatters ain't attackted us; they wasn't
to home."

"Dere was one man in dot house," she an-
swered, slowly. "He coot killed us all if we
wend near. Dem odders are goming back from
dot zaloon crazy drunk."

Oaths, quarrelsome shouts, and snatches of
ribald song went to confirm the truth of this
guess. And by these the breathless listeners
were enabled to follow their enemies' unsteady
way along the fence and into the cabin.

Jack now anticipated an immediate attack;
but, after watching and waiting a patient while,
Mrs. Hardman said:

"Lie down und zleep, Zhag. Dey will gome
in the morning."

The boy's heavy breathings soon filled the
cabin. Meanwhile his mother sat at her post,
alert and vigilant, watching a candle that flick-
ered in the window of her old home. How
busy her thoughts were, dipping into the past
of honest and frugal toil, into the present of dis-
comfort and danger, into the future of uncer-
tainty ! While she had a drop of wholesome
courage in her veins, she would not give up one
foot of the land. Upon that she was sternly re-
solved. She and Jack would fight and die for
it, if need be. There was no redress in the te-
dious processes of the law.

The candle still flickered down below, and
she gazed at it, or seemed to gaze at it, steadily.
It may be that her heavy eye-lids fell in an in-
stant of unconsciousness, for the feeble candle-
flicker had suddenly become a broad flame,
lighting up the hill-side and angrily reddening
the lowering sky.

What had happened, what was happening,
was clear to her in a flash.

"Zhag," she cried, in a strong, wakening voice,
"dem drunken men has zet demzelves afire."

The sleeper neither woke nor stirred. She
shook him roughly, but he was heavy with

slumber and could not understand. The mo-
ments were precious. She pulled him back
from the door, opened it, and ran down hill.
No human voice broke the stillness. The eager
flames leaped and crackled. The cabin was a
mere shell, and as dry as tinder.

Jack awoke shuddering with cold. An un-
mistakable draft of out-door air was blowing on
his face. He held up a startled hand, and felt
the wind upon that.

"Mother!" he whispered, in shaken tones.

The silence was ominous. Strange visions
of disaster had troubled his later sleep — he
now thought them realities. The squatters had
attacked them, and he was lying wounded, he
knew not where.

"Mother!"

He fancied he heard a smothered groan. He
rose, and half stumbled, half fell, through the
open door.

Little shoots of flame, and quick, fiery sparks,
rose up from a mysterious hollow, he could not
tell in what direction. The air was full of
smoke. He was utterly bewildered. Some-
thing seemed, in some blind way, to direct his
steps. He ran forward, and struck against a
prostrate human body.

Great and virtuous indignation blazed forth
against "Old Mother Dutchy" over the hill.
Those who had sympathized with her in her
land troubles now bitterly denounced her. Had
she shot the squatters, the popular verdict might
have acquitted her ; but to fire a roof over the
heads of drunken and sleeping men was the
work of a fiend.

In the small hours of morning, Mrs. O'Den-
nis had been awakened by a vigorous pounding
on her door, and, demanding who was there,
the answer came :

" It's us, Finnegan and Cronin. We're afther
fetchin' Tim. We're badly hurted, an' he's nigh-
hand dead."

The rescued men told conflicting stories.
With unexpected chivalry, they seemed bent
upon disclaiming any praise, each in the other's
favor. According to Finnegan, Cronin had
roused him and carried Tim out ; according to
Cronin, these good deeds were Finnegan's.
Tim's poor, miserable life trembled in the bal-
ance. He could not speak. But on one point
the two friends were agreed: they had both
seen "Old Mother Dutchy" performing witch-
like antics around the burning building. They
went down to the city together to swear out a
warrant for her arrest, on a charge of incendi-
arism. The mere syllables had frightful mean-
ing in those days of devastating fires.

THE FESTIVAL OF CHILDHOOD.

As the woman was a well known desperate
character, and was backed by her son, three
officers were detailed to make the arrest. Mr.
Finnegan accompained them.

The little cabin that had made so sudden ap-
pearance stood closed and silent above the spot
where blackened cinders told of sudden disap-
pearance in flame and smoke.

The four men climbed the fence and marched
resolutely forward. Finnegan gave unofficial
advice to fire at the first sign of life, or "Moth-
er Dutchy wud have the'dhrop" on them. Not
the least sign of life was given, however.

"Be the howly Moses!" was Finnegan's agi-
tated whisper, "the ould hag has made
thracks!"

They listened, crouching at the side of the
house. There was no stir ; no footstep within.
But hark! Was that a muffled groan ? Cocking
his pistol, the officer in command opened the
door and stepped, without any warning, over the
threshold. The others crowded up behind him.

Something down in a corner, that seemed a
huddle of old clothing, shook and stirred, and a
face was lifted slowly toward them; a blind,
blank face, horrible to see, with blackened fore-
head, shriveled eyelids, and raw, ragged burns.
About this countenance, what may once have
been neat, gray hair hung in a few crisped,
hideous knots.

"You too lade, Doctor," said a rough, wander-
ing voice. "Where's Zhag?"

The lifted head fell back ; the huddle of cloth-
ing writhed, groaning.

Even Finnegan, coarse brute that he was, un-
covered silently.

"Zwalleyin' fire is bad, Zhag," came the
rough, wandering voice again; "worzer dan
dot neurolchy. But I got dem drunken men
oud."

There were hoarse, gasping sounds; then a
long silence.

"Is she gone?" whispered Finnegan. An
officer put up a warning hand. The woman
stirred again ; and an impatient quacking of un-
fed geese, down by the burned cabin, borne
loudly through the open door, she murmured,
"Dem bretty goozes." The officer did not un-
derstand. "Water?" he asked, bending over
her. Her answer came strong and clear, "Dot
landt! Don'da give up dot landt, Mart'a?"

And Jack? His mother dead and buried, he
went to Pajaro Valley, and got into a dispute
with the sheep-herder. The latter claimed that
Mrs. Hardman had deeded him one-half her
property there in consideration of his services.
He produced a paper; it was signed "Martha
Hardman."

"The deed is a forgery!" cried poor Jack;
"my mother could not write."

Whereupon, the sheep-herder leveled his gun,
took deliberate aim, and fired. Jack fell, never
to rise again. EVELYN M. LUDLUM.

THE FESTIVAL OF CHILDHOOD.

[Mr. Edward Champury, a resident of the Familistere, at Guise, France, gives, in Le Devoir, a graphic
account of the late annual "Festival of Childhood" (F&te de L'Enfance) in that institution. The following
is a careful translation:]

The first Sunday of September is a great day
for the twelve hundred inhabitants of the Fa-
milistere. On that day, every year, is celebrated
the Festival of Childhood ; on that day the pu-
pils of the schools of the association receive re-
wards for good conduct, for progress in study,
and for assiduity.

This day, therefore, is the burden of every
conversation for a long time before it arrives.
The mammas and big sisters make their needles
fly over the new costumes and fresh toilettes
that must be ready for that day. Little wide-
awake boys talk about the prizes they hope to
win, and of the games in which they will take
part ; little girls, with silky hair bristling in curl-
papers, describe to each other the new dresses

being made for them, and the color of the rib-
bons they will wear. Papas and big brothers,
during the leisure hours afforded by their daily
toil, discuss the decorations of the great central
court, and study how to make it more splendid
than it was the preceding year. In a word,
everybody interests himself in the fete with as
much enthusiasm, at least, as if it were a per-
sonal affair.

Sunday Morning. — The rain pours, but this
does not prevent the people from busying them-
selves with the festival preparations as soon
as the day breaks. The Familistere, indeed
(thanks to its style of construction), is marvel-
ously well adapted to the celebration of festi-

THE CALIFORNIAN.

vals even in the worst weather. The great
courts, covered with glass, afford perfect shel-
ter and protection to everything. Therefore,
during all the morning hours, you see ladders
raised in the central court, and hear the sound
of hammers — no one paying any attention to
the rattle of the rain upon the great glazed roof.
Great is the animation in the court. A whole
army of joyous volunteers are decorating the
galleries extending all around the court on three
stories. Trophies of flags bearing the colors of
France, garlands of evergreens or of brilliant
paper, shields bearing various mottoes, masses
of branches in full foliage, are fastened and fes-
tooned all along the three galleries, which ex-
tend around the four sides of the vast nave.
At the eastern extremity of this court an im-
mense escutcheon, three stories high, symbol-
izes the instruction and the protection of child-
hood.

Sunday Afternoon. — The distribution of
prizes is announced for three o'clock, and from
a quarter after two the pretty building devoted
to the nursery and the kindergarten — the place
appointed for the rendezvous of the children —
is alive with a joyous throng. While without
the thunder rolls and the rain pours like the
best day of the Deluge, the spectacle inside is
one of the most charming. This building, it
must be noted, is connected with the palace of
the Familistere by a covered gallery. Never
was a hive of bees more full of life and joy.
Every face is flushed with pleasure, every eye
sparkles with keen expectancy. Those among
the children who, the evening before, received
decorations for good conduct or progress in
learning, are the first to arrive. Ah ! how hap-
py they are ! They are to carry a banner in the
procession — a banner of brilliant colors, dis-
playing in handsome golden letters the special-
ty in which they have obtained the first rank.
Not without some difficulty do the principal
and the assistant teachers succeed in classing,
in the order of their merit, all the little boys
and girls, so impatient and excited are they
over their great yearly fete.

While the children are forming for the pro-
cession in their building, the orchestra of the
Familistere meet in the halls of the casino; the
company of firemen and the archery company
form their lines before the principal facade of
the palace, and there receive their flags. The
other divisions of the cortege assembled in the
great glazed court of the left wing.

At half past two, the different groups march
out and enter the great central court, already
described, and there the cortege is formed.
The firemen and archers take their place at the

end of the court, behind the ranks of children
formed in a half-circle. In less than fifteen
minutes every one is in his place, and the pro-
cession moves, the Familistere band of musi-
cians filling the immense structure of the court
with its grand harmonies.

By a fortunate coincidence the storm ceases
at this moment. The clouds roll away, and the
sun appears in all its glory, just as the proces-
sion passes out of the central door of the court
and crosses the great place laid in cement,
which extends from the palace to the theater,
the schools, and the other dependent buildings.
A crowd of people, mostly from the city of
Guise, just across the River Oise, encumber
this place, while from the two hundred and
sixty-six windows of the front of the palace the
inhabitants of the numerous apartments look
down upon the imposing spectacle. According
to custom, the sappers clear the way through
the crowd; after them follow the drums and
the clarions, all in their particular uniform;
then come the Familistere firemen in their
severe uniform, their helmets glistening in the
sun, bearing their colors in advance. After
these, in the place of honor, march the joyous
heroes of the day, the pupils of the schools and
of the kindergarten, two by two, or rather in
two files — the girls at the left, and the boys at
the right. The students of the first merit carry
the banners ; others wear medals, or ribbons of
different colors, as insignia of distinction.

The second part of the cortege marches in
the following order :

i. — The Familistere Musical Society (VHar-
monie du Familistere }, in their elegant uni-
form, and bearing their magnificent banner of
garnet velvet, crowned with a trophy of medals.

2. — The founder of the Familistere, M.
Godin, attended by the two councils of the 'as-
sociation, the presidents and secretaries of the
Boards of Mutual Assurance, Medical Aid, and
Pensions.

3. — The employe's of the Familistere Iron
Works, and a delegation of former workmen.

The Familistere Archery Company, bearing
its flag, closes the procession. As the cortege
reaches the entrance to the theater, the fire
company form in lines on either side, between
which the cortege passes, the band plays a piece
from its rtpertoire^ and quickly the theater is
filled. The public occupy the three tiers of gal-
leries. The parterre is devoted to the children
— the boys at the right, the girls at the left, and
on both sides the smallest in front. M. Godin
and the councils take their places on the stage,
the orchestra behind them.

Masses of fuchsias, Reine Marguerite, dah-
lias, and amaranths, growing in elegant vases,

THE FESTIVAL OF CHILDHOOD.

are arranged on steps that rise from the floor
of the parterre to the stage. The vases, and
also their pedestals, are cast in the Familistere
works. At the foot of the stairs leading to the
stage is a very beautiful terrestial globe and a
cosmographe a bougie* All around the first gal-
lery are displayed drawings executed by the
pupils, and in the lobby there is a fine exhibi-
tion of needle -work. The ladies belonging to
committees have seats upon the stage.

It is a pleasure to see the pupils of the Famil-
istere schools grouped in this way, the boys in
their finest Sunday clothes, the girls in their
daintiest and freshest toilettes. All are irre-
proachably clean. All are well, and some ele-
gantly, dressed. Yet, with four or five excep-
tions, they are sons and daughters of ordinary
laboring men. This fact is sufficient comment
in itself.

The Harmonie, or orchestra of the Familis-
tere, opens the ceremonies — if the word cere-
mony may be applied to this charming festival
of childhood — by a fine selection from Ziegler,
rEsperance. A mixed chorus of children, with
a soprano solo, sing Les Abeilles (the Bees),
words by Henry Murger, music by Leon De-
libes. The audience applauds with a good
will, wondering, no doubt, how the pupils of
the association can execute a piece of music
like this, bristling with changes of measure.

The singing ended, a young pupil named Eu-
gene Griviller takes his stand before the cosmo-
graphe, and, with perfect self-possession and in
a good style, gives a lesson to his school-mates.
From time to time, to assure himself that they
are listening attentively, he questions one or
another pupil, who rises and responds from his
or her seat. For the most difficult parts, sev-
eral pupils in turn are called before the cosmo-
graphe, to put questions themselves or to ex-
plain those put to them.

After this lesson, which we can say without
exaggeration astonished the audience, a charm-
ing little girl, Palmyre Poulain, gives a recita-
tion with great aplomb and perfect accentua-
tion. The subject is, "The Origin of the Lazy
and the Improvident." Two poems follow.
The last, "My Grandmother's Spectacles," by
Mademoiselle Heloise Point, a little girl of
nine years, is rendered with such art, and at
the same time with such naturalness, that the
entire audience, surprised and charmed, ap-
plaud her to the echo. It is an honor to the
Familiste're schools to have among its pupils
those who can hold a large audience thus en-
tranced.

* The technical name of the apparatus for teaching cosmog-
raphy : " The constitution of the whole system of worlds, or the
figure, disposition, and relation of all its parts."

At this point of the ceremonies, M. Godin de-
livered the remarkable address which we give
below, and which] will show that he takes is-
sue very directly with the routines of instruc-
tion so generally prevailing in our schools. His
discourse was warmly applauded.

ADDRESS OF M. GODIN.

"Dear pupils, another year has passed. For
you a year of study — of progress in that knowl-
edge which men and women must acquire in
order to render themselves intelligently useful
in whatever career they may be called to fol-
low.

"Education, as we conceive it, should pre-
pare the child for practical life. It should, in
the first place, facilitate his finding a calling,
and then enable him to seize the details of that
calling and apply to them the knowledge of
principles acquired at school.

"Unfortunately, this primary object of public
education has not been recognized heretofore.
Young people have been forced to devote their
time to what is of little use to them, while re-
ceiving no instruction about those things they
will most need on leaving school or college.
Boards of education are now taking a deter-
mined stand against routine, and demanding
that children be taught what is practical and
useful. But how much time it takes to es-
tablish a rational theory of education — to con-
struct a programme of rational instruction, and
then to educate teachers for carrying it into
practice !

"Such has been the folly of public school in-
struction up to this time, that reading, the fun-
damental basis of instruction, has been so neg-
lected that before knowing how to read well
pupils have been drilled in studies and prob-
lems of which they can 'never make any use.
Their memory has been burdened with no-
tions contrary, in nearly all instances, to the
principles of modern society. Their judg-
ment, therefore, has been atrophied, and they
have been left in ignorance of that which is
most important for them to know, namely:
the progress of nations toward liberty and in-
dustrial emancipation.

"It is vitally important that public instruction
should abandon its old methods and rise to the
needs of the present day. To this end, the art
of reading must be taught with care, with meth-
od, and with good text -books. Not only is it
essential that the pupil know how to read in
the commonly received sense of the word : he
must be taught the full meaning of words, to
digest each sentence, and to seize perfectly the
sense of the author. '

THE CALIFORNIAN.

"Give to the child the art of reading, and
you have given him the key to science. How
many men have risen to distinction by their
own efforts, after this simple accomplishment !
It is safe to say that all that a child learns he
will forget unless he learns how to read well.
On the contrary, if he is a good reader he will
not only retain what he learns, but he will con-
stantly learn more because of his love of read-
ing. Science to him will be easily accessible.

"Fathers and mothers, if you would know
the amount of useful instruction which your
children are receiving, measure it by the per-
fection of their reading ; for if they read poorly,
whatever they learn will be of little use to them.
Let us, then, be careful that our children be-
come good readers, since it is by reading that
they become acquainted with what goes on in
the world. Being good readers, their thoughts
will acquire more precision, and the expression
of them in writing more force and elegance.
Arithmetic should be taught by constant exer-
cise upon problems of common, practical use.
Better far abandon the old method of making
them study the solution of problems which have
nothing to do with' their after life. On the con-
trary, let them be well drilled upon the most
ordinary, practical questions. Thus they will
be developed into good workmen, foremen, en-
gineers, and finally leaders of industry. Noth-
ing which they have learned at school should
be lost to them, and thus their entrance into a
productive career will be easy.

"Such has been the principle that has guided
us in the education of the children of the Fa-
milistere, and this principle should continue to
inspire us if we would have all our children
worthy successors of their fathers — successors
who will continue to present, in the Familistere,
the spectacle of a population of workers living
in ease, harmony, and domestic happiness. But
we must not forget that this result is too broad
to be compassed by school instruction alone. Be-
sides the knowledge necessary to the perform-
ance of daily functions, man must understand
his social destiny, his rights and duties as a cit-
izen ; and with us a still further acquirement is
essential: namely, the sentiment of fraternal
love.

"We confess, with regret, that our Familis-
tere schools are not yet free from the common
faults of public schools. Good text -books are
greatly needed — text -books meeting the de-
mands of modern methods of instruction ; and,
also, habits contracted under the bad influ-
ences of the past are an obstacle that must be
overcome.

"Our schools must rid themselves of all
priestly interference, if they would become re-

ally progressive, and inaugurate a system of in-
struction worthy of a republican government,
preparing for the nation noble citizens, who re-
gard labor as the first and most sacred function
of society — citizens rejecting all ideas of caste
and class, and cherishing the sentiments of hu-
man dignity and of fraternity among men.

"This, dear pupils, is the role which belongs
to you especially. In no part of the world has
there been offered to any generation a mission
so noble as that to which you are called. You
are to be the continuers of the association es-
tablished here. You are to succeed your fa-
thers in the glorious task of practicing justice in
the distribution of the products of labor. It is,
therefore, indispensable that you raise yourselves
through study and learning to the hight of the
role which you have to fill. The association
being established among us, you are to become
its laborers, foremen, supervisors, accountants,
engineers, directors, and its administrators.
How can you accomplish this object if by your
efforts you do not acquire sufficient education,
and if, by trying to be good and true, you do
not raise yourselves to the hight of those moral
qualities necessary in the management of a fra-
ternal association?

"And you, fathers and mothers, who are listen-
ing to my words, you who have long enjoyed the
advantages of this association, labor to increase
those advantages.

"The Society of the Familistere is now estab-
lished. The institutions are founded here to
give each of you security for the morrow, care
and medical aid in sickness, a retreat for inva-
lids, to widows and orphans the means of liv-
ing, to every child education — all these institu-
tions were placed in your hands at the same
time that you became partners in the societary
industries and in the instruments of labor which
give you your means of living.

"But, despite the fact accomplished, many
among you still refuse to believe in the reality
of the association that I have founded here
among you. Disposed to find in every act a
personal interest, they refuse to see things as
they are, and vainly ask themselves what mo-
tive the founder could have in establishing this
association. To ask his workmen to share the
profits of a great industry, when, as the owner,
he could keep all for himself, is something that,
according to them, no one would ever do ; there-
fore, they will not believe in the association. The
dividends distributed in the past, and the pub-
lished articles of association, do not suffice to
convince them. A longer experience of practi-
cal results is necessary. For such, nothing can
be done but to wait. The day is not far off
when they will come and eagerly demand to be

THE FESTIVAL OF CHILDHOOD.

inscribed upon the roll of members. They will
do this when they see their friends receiving
their yearly dividends and the interest that will
be due them.

"As to those among you whose hearts are
with the association, but are too modest to ask
admission, I would say : Be reassured, Have
faith and confidence. Our society admits all
those who will work for it with good hearts, and
it exacts no sacrifice of them.

"Certain persons, I am told, pretend that no
one can enter the association except by putting
money into it. They have not read the articles
of our constitution, or they are incapable of
comprehending the full significance of those
articles touching the future realization of pros-
perity for the laborer and the abolition of the
wages system.

"May all doubt vanish from your hearts, and,
in view of what has been already accomplished,
may the most timid become inspired with cour-
age to carry forward the great enterprise we
have undertaken ! Be vigilant from this time
forward in maintaining the common prosperity.
Give to the world the proof that the laborer
himself is the largest factor in the problem of
his own welfare, and that to solve that problem
he needs only liberty and a field of action.

"And now, directors, administrators, and
members of the councils, a noble task devolves
upon you. You are the first to have openly ac-
cepted the moral responsibility of cooperating
for the success of the association of capital and
labor. Your efforts in the way of industrial
work, as well as in the organization of meas-
ures best adapted to secure mutuality and fra-
ternity in our association, will become known
to posterity. History will record our success
or our failure, and do full justice to each and
all of us according to our merit ; for the asso-
ciation of the Familistere is too important a
fact in the history of labor to not be examined
some day in all its details.

"The problem of the conciliation of interests
between employers and laborers is the most
pressing one before society at this hour. Let
us endeavor to prove that this problem is not
insoluble ; that justice and equity may be estab-
lished in the distribution of the fruits of produc-
tion ; that the worker of every degree, the com-
mon laborer as well as the employer, can receive
a just share of what he has helped to produce.

"Our efforts here have demonstrated another
and very important proposition, which is that
associative labor has power to protect the weak,
and to fully guarantee the family of the work-
man against poverty.

"We have, I repeat, practically demonstrated
this already ; but it is by the perpetuation of the

work that the world will become convinced.
Our association must continue to prosper, in
order that its principles may serve the solution
of the social problems that disturb society to-
day. To secure this result, our children must
continue the work we have begun. This is why
I have called your attention to the duty devolv-
ing upon us in the education of the young in
the Familistere of Guise, and upon the impor-
tance of developing the love of labor, and, above
all, the love of our association in the hearts of
our children.

"Do not lose sight of this; for, from this
time forward, it is not simply their own indi-
vidual interests that these children will have to
consider : they are to show the world that it is
by the power of association that the emancipa-
tion of the working classes is to be effected.

"From all parts of the earth you hear the
voices of the workers, demanding their rights ;
everywhere strikes and conflicts between capi-
tal and labor. Reflect upon the privations of
the laborer, and the uncertainty of his condi-
tion, and remember that we are accomplishing
a holy work in demonstrating to the world how
by the association of capital and labor, we have
destroyed among us that hideous leprosy which
decimates humanity — Poverty!

"Such a result is, indeed, worthy of your high-
est courage, your warmest enthusiasm. Let us
work then, brothers, for it is by labor, and by
the love of doing good, that man must accom-
plish the salvation of the world."

Following the address of M. Godin, was a
song by the children, the music by Rivetti, and
the words appropriate to the occasion. Then
came the distribution of the prizes.

The first two names called are the young
Griviller — the same whom we have just seen
demonstrating before the cosmographe — and
Master Aristide Te'tier. These two have won
the prize of honor in the highest division of the
Familistere schools. It should be mentioned
that in each division it is the pupils themselves
who decide who shall receive the prizes. They
are chosen by ballot, and in every instance it
has been found that those they elect are pre-
cisely those whom the teachers would have
named, had the responsibility rested with them
alone.

Every promotion in the association of the
Familistere is gained through legitimate com-
petition. Mr. Godin, wisely believing that the
best way to guard the institution of the ballot
from ever becoming corrupt or inefficient was
to develop among the members, from their
childhood, the habit of carefully appreciating
merit, he introduced into the schools the custom

THE CALIFORNIAN.

of balloting for the prizes of honor, and the re-
sult has proved a perfect success.

After the awarding of the prizes in the highest
division, the distribution of the ordinary prizes
commences. These are about the same as in
preceding years.

As each name is called, the pupil advances
and receives, from the hands of the Directress
of Education, a prize and a crown. The pupil
takes the crown to one of the occupants of the
big arm chairs on the stage, and asks him or
her to crown him. The prizes are beautiful
books — finely bound, illustrated, and chosen
with the greatest care from among the editions
published by Hachette, of Paris. The recom-
penses destined for professional instruction con-
sist of tools, cases of mathematical instruments,
etc., for the boys ; and for the girls, sewing and
knitting implements. Toys are given to the
very young children.

The pupils receiving the highest honors this
year after Eugene Griviller and Aristide Te"tier,
already named, were Zdphyr Proix and Al-
phonse Sarrasin, of the highest division; and
in the second division, with He'loise Point and
Palmyre Poulain, already named, Camille Del-
zard. May the publishing of their names in
this journal be a reward for their past efforts,
and an encouragement for the future !

La Tourangelle^ a very beautiful piece of
music by Bleger, with a remarkable part for the
first cornet, closed the ceremonies, and the quit-
ting of the theatre was effected in the same or-
der as the entrance. They all reassembled in
the court of the left wing, and after the singing
of the 'Chanson de Roland by the children —
words by Sedaine, music by Grdtry — and the
execution of the Marseillaise^ the crowd dis-
perse over the place, where the industrials have
installed various amusements. At eight o'clock
in the evening, the orchestra mount the plat-
form raised for them in the great court, the ball
opens and continues until midnight. It is a
charming sight, this vast ball-room, over one
hundred and forty -seven feet long, in which
hundreds of couples move about with perfect
ease, while thousands of spectators (most of

them from the city of Guise and from neigh-
boring villages) form a living border in each of
the galleries surrounding this immense hall.

Monday. — This day of the festival has special
attractions for the children. It is devoted to
games and plays. This year it is favored by
uncommonly fine weather.

In the early morning the trumpet of the corps
of firemen invites the curious to a parade and
maneuver with the fire-engines, the Familistere
Theater being the focus of a fictitious confla-
gration.

At 2 P. M., the drums and trumpets sound the
rappel. The games commence. The boys,
with balle a cheval, casse-pot, and calottes de
couleur^ occupy the court of the central pavil-
ion, the court of the left wing, and the great
square before ft&fa$adej while the girls amuse
themselves with blind-man's-buff, the game of
rings and scissors, in the court of the right
wing and of the central building.

Conclusion. — Rightly understood, festivals
like these are a culture to the people, mentally
and morally. Deprived of them, the laborer
degenerates into a mere working machine. It
is absolutely essential to him that he should not
only witness, but take part in, grand festivals
and ceremonies. They afford him diversion
and rest. The Familistere is admirably adapt-
ed to this end. Where will you find, except in
a large association, grouped together in fami-
lies, the conditions that enable simple laborers
to give festivals so grand and well ordered as
this which we have described?

Be not deceived. The success of the Famil-
istere fetes depends upon two causes, which,
operating heretofore, have make all their cele-
brations splendid, and will make them more
magnificent in the future. The first of these
causes is that the unitary habitation affords
material conditions for grand celebrations that
can be found nowhere else ; the second is that
association accustoms its members to seek their
pleasure in the pleasure of all.

MARIE ROWLAND.

"OLD CHINA."

MANCHESTER, N. H., Nov. 17, 1880.
MY DEAR JOHN : — When you were here a
month or so ago, and wandered about my sit-
ting-room with your hands behind you, looking
at my pictures with an air of connoisseurship,
and inquiring into the history of my bric-a-

brac collection, do you remember that you par-
ticularly admired a small, blue china cup and
saucer? It was so thin that you could hardly
resist crushing it like an egg-shell in your great
hand, and, in spite of your usual contempt of
"gew-gaws," I think you really wanted that

11 OLD CHINA."

cup — for it was all I could do to keep you from
carrying it off with you to San Francisco. It
is a sort of relic, a sacred one to me — for it
has quite a history, which I am going to write
about now.

I spent the summer on the unfashionable side
of Mount Desert, at South-west Harbor. It
is a small place and very unpretentious, its only
pride being in its natural beauties. The toe of
the village lies on a high bluff which runs out
to see what the broad Atlantic is doing,, while
the heel rests under the shadow of the ever-
lasting hills. Out on the point lives a family
named King, but before I speak of them let
me remind you how democratic I am. In ac-
cordance with my natural taste, I made friends
of these rude, rough, warm-hearted villagers.
I gave music lessons to a couple of girls who
were ambitious to learn to play the "pianner,"
and thereby gained the approbation of the peo-
ple, who are usually rather shy of city folks. I
became so interested in the villagers, that I
finally left the hotel and went to live with one
Mrs. Haines, who was a sister to the Kings who
live on the bluff. One day, hearing a loud
talking and lamenting in the summer kitchen/!
went out to see what was the matter. Mrs.
Haines was crying, and one or two stout, weath-
er-beaten men were looking as if they would
like to cry, but didn't dare, so they put the en-
ergy of their grief into their jaws, and chewed
their tobacco with more than usual zest.

"Oh, Miss H.," they all exclaimed when I
entered, "what shell we do? David King is
dead, and there's nary a girl to lead the singin'
at the funeral. They's all gone over to Bar
Harbor to wait on table. Priscilla Morton she's
got the sore throat, and — poor David was so
fond of that good old tune 'China' 'at it's a
shame and a sin it can't be sang to him the last
thing."

Before the harangue was half through the
voices had diminished to one, that of Mrs.
Haines, sister of the deceased.

"Well," I said, " if I can do anything to help
you, you must be sure to let me know. Per-
haps / can lead the singing if you can't get
Priscilla to do so."

Mrs. Haines face brightened a bit, and she
said, "Do," in her short, decisive way.

So, then and there, I made arrangements
with "Sol," who kept store, dried fish, and per-
formed the duty of undertaker to the whole vil-
lage, to have the parson call on me that after-
noon, to plan the rehearsal.

It was one of those lovely summer days pe-
culiar to Mount Desert. The sunshine poured
itself down in such rich abundance that it made
even the shadows throb and thrill with yellow

glory. I sat on the door -step awaiting the par-
son's coming. There was a narrow road be-
tween me and the ocean, which at high tide
came almost to the road's edge, as if, in return
for the bluffs advances, it was curious to know
what we, on the land, inside those homely cot-
tages, could be about. I'm afraid I fell into
one of my dreaming fits as I sat there watch-
ing the sunshine dance over the water. The
glory of heaven seemed to shine upon the earth
that day; and although I knew there was death
and sorrow out on the cliff, I could not be un-
happy, for it was one of those times, when the
sun and flowers alone make glad the heart. I
was awakened from my reverie by seeing the
figure of the parson approaching. As he drew
nearer I could hear him repeating slowly, in a
deep monotone :

"As soon as thou scatterest them, they are
even as asleep, and fade away suddenly like
the grass. In the morning it is green and grow-
eth up ; in the evening it is cut down, dried up,
and withered ; for we consume away in thy dis-
pleasure, and are afraid at thy wrathful indig-
nation For when thou art angry, all our

days are gone ; we bring our years to an end,
as it were a tale that is told."

Then seeing me, he said, "Sister in the Lord,
this is a mournful occasion, truly."

"Not so," I replied. "When a good man
dies ripe in years and full of good deeds, has
he not won his rest, and does he not deserve
the quiet that death only can give?"

And then followed a discussion which would
have amused you, John. It ended amicably,
however, and we then proceeded to arrange
matters for the choir.

"Where are the rest?" I said, looking at the
road, and seeing none appear.

"Rest?" he queried.

"Yes; the young people who are to sing to-
day with me."

"No one is to sing with you. The boys and
girls are all away."

"I haven't got to sing alone?" I gasped.

"Yes, sister," he answered; "the widder ex-
pects it."

Seeing there was no withdrawing gracefully,
I humbly asked who played the organ, and if I
might see that person.

"There isn't any organist."

"No one to play for me? Must I do my
own accompaniments?"

"There isn't any organ," responded this dole-
ful, mournful servant of Christ.

"No organ, no piano, no player, no singers,
and yet you expect me to conduct the musical
part of the service," I replied, fairly aghast
with horror.

THE CALIFORNIA^.

"Certainly. There are four hymns the wid-
der selected: * China,' 'Hark, from the tombs,'
'Broad is the road that leads to death,' and
one other, which I've forgotten."

I was horror-stricken at the appalling list,
but, seeing that I was in for it, and that the
best way was to go ahead, I gave my consent,
and we arranged a programme for a service,
which it took us no less than two hours to per-
form.

When the preliminary arrangements were
finished, the parson said :

" I suppose you know where the singers' seats
are, for I think you've been to meeting in our
house."

"No," I said.

"They're on a platform under the pulpit, fac-
ing the congregation," replied he.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I cannot sing unless
there is some other place for me to sit. I really
could not do it there."

"Well," he responded, "there's the old gal-
lery. No one's been up there for ten years, so
I reckon its rather dusty, and there's only a lad-
der leading to it."

And with that he made me a bow, and took
his solemn way to the house of mourning, leav-
ing me to my own devices.

It wanted only half an hour of service, so I
walked to the meeting-house to look up the
hymns and try my voice in the strange, empty
place. The walls were white and bare, save
where a few smoky kerosene lamps had specked
the spaces between the windows. The pulpit
was of white pine, painted in imitation of mar-
ble. The books were black and doleful look-
ing ; in fact, there was not one bit of color in
the place.

I found my way up the ladder into the loft,
closing the trap-door carefully after me, lest in
the darkness I should lose my way and fall
down the hole. One little round window, with
a green cambric curtain, was all I had to light
me through my task. Soon I found the books,
and when I tried the first hymn, "Why should
we mourn departed friends?" my voice fairly
frightened me, the place seemed so uncanny
and gruesome.

Presently the people began to come in. First
of all, Polly Jones, with her ridiculous bonnet,
unlike anything I ever saw or heard of. To
my horror, she took a prominent seat, and, turn
which way I would, that terrible woman, with
her sad face and absurd bonnet, haunted me.
When I sang, "Or shake at death's alarms," I
fear I was inwardly shaking at that alarming
woman. Polly was followed by a string of vil-
lagers, all clean and appropriately solemn look-
ing, in their "best Sunday clo'es." Finally the

mourners filed in, one by one, to the front seats.
Where the corpse was I could not imagine, and
as I was to open the service with an introit ( ! )
of some sort, I was a little anxious. We wait-
ed and waited, I for the corpse, the minister for
me, the congregation for him. Although the
minister was opposite me, at the other end of
the church, he was so near-sighted that he could
not see my interrogative gestures, so he remain-
ed in ignorance of my dilemma. Finally the
trap-door of my ladder snapped open, and a lit-
tle gray-bearded man popped his head up, look-
ing, in his setting of darkness, like a Jack-in-
the-box.

"We ain't goin' ter have no corpse!" he
shouted across the gallery, in a stage whisper,
to me. "It wouldn't keep; we's buried him
down in his own seminary, in his garding;"
and down he popped again, as suddenly as he
had appeared, leaving me convulsed with
laughter I dared not give utterance to.

Soon the parson, not knowing of the funny
little man's performance on the ladder, arose
and announced, with a loud "Ahem!" that

"Miss H , of Oakland, California, would

favor them with a hymn."

Fancy it, John ! It was almost too much for
me ; but with superhuman effort I mastered my-
self and began, "I heard a voice from Heaven,"
the congregation rising, and turning round to
face me. After the prayer I sang

"Why should we mourn departing friends,

Or shake at Death's alarms?
' Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
To call us to His arms,"

which sounded very strangely with only one
part. When the service was over, I waited till
the people had all gone, and then I descended
from the loft and went out of the church. At
the door I met Mrs. King, the widow, whom I
supposed had gone home.

"Oh, my dear child," she sobbed, "how beau-
tiful it was !" and, putting her arms about my
neck, " I wish you'd a ben here when my Sam-
my died !"

Wasn't that pathetic, John? You can im-
agine how guilty I felt at having wanted to
laugh so. I spent the rest of the day on the
door-steps of Mrs. Haines's house, watching the
sunset on the water, and thinking what a queer
experience I had had, and how my Californian
friends would have laughed at me, had they
happened to go to that meeting-house at that
hour, and heard the music and witnessed my
predicament.

Presently a boat came rowing down from the
bluffs ; it stopped in front of the door, and a
tall, gaunt man jumped ashore, carrying the

IN TIME OF DROUGHT.

painter of the boat in one hand, and nervously
tucking his hat under his arm with the other.
He approached me, saying :

"Be you the — be you the young woman as
sang to my father's funeral ter-day ? 'Cause ef
you be, here is a mackerel I kotched fur yer
supper. I wish — I wish it was a whole boat-
load I had, and you wanted every one of them,
marm !" And, without waiting for a reply, his
long legs carried him to his boat again, and his
long arms soon pulled the craft out of sight.

Later, when the moon rose, and I was still
sitting on the steps, I saw Mrs. King coming
down the road. She was carrying a white pack-
age in her hand.

"I've heerd," she began, "that folks in cities
gets paid for doin' what yer done this afternoon.
I know yer don't want none, and I ain't agoin'
to offer yer none; but ef you'd like to remem-
ber how you soothed a poor widder's grief, and
let in a bit of God's sunshine to her heart, I
tho't as how you might take this," handing me
the blue cup and saucer you admired so, John.
"T'was David's, that's dead and gone, and his

father, and his father afore him, drank out of
it ; but yer5!! take it ter please me, now won't
yer? And would you mind doin' it once more
for me — it's so sweet."

So in the moonlight we sat, and, taking the
poor woman's hand in mine, I softly sang the
quaint minor strain,

"Why should we mourn departing friends ? "

Heigh, ho ! How near together lie the pa-
thetic and the ludicrous ! I never quite knew
whether to laugh or cry at that day's experi-
ences. But now you know why I value that
cup, and, how by gratifying some one else's
love of old "China," my own passion for "old
china" was gratified also, for that cup is one
hundred and fifty years old.

Your affectionate sister, M.

P. S. — You must not think I have embellish-
ed this story ; for it actually occurred just as I
have related it.

MELLIE A. HOPKINS.

IN TIME OF DROUGHT.

VOL. HI.— 5.

A brown and barren world! Ah, desolate

The land whose green of spring is ended,

Whose harvest -gold is all expended,

Whose ocean wind with dust is blended —

Ah, desolate!
Yet who shall call it cursed of Fate,

If, closely clasped by skies unclouded,

It lies with tender blue enshrouded,

Till barren Earth with Heaven is crowded?
Uncursed of Fate.

Ah, desolate the life — ah, desolate —
Where childhood's springing grass has faded,
Where love's ripe gold long since evaded
The feeble hands that clung unaided —

Ah, desolate!

Yet who shall dare to rue its fate,
If, resting in some faith unclouded,
With gladness infinite enshrouded,
Its grief with larger peace is crowded?
Most blessed of Fate !

MILICENT WASHBURN SHINN.

THE CAL1FORNIAN.

A NEW POET.

It is surprising to note how few men of the
younger generation, here in America, are doing
poetic work of the least originality or force.
The old race are passing away, one by one ;
but when we ask who is to succeed them the
question seems answerable only in one hopeless
manner. A brilliant exception to this dearth of
promise, however, has of late come to the no-
tice of literary observers. There is a young
poet in New York, Mr. Francis S. Saltus, whose
claims to future distinction are growing stronger
with every succeeding year. Mr. Saltus pub-
lished a volume of poems in 1873, under the
imprimatur of Messrs. Lippincott & Co., en-
titled Honey and Gall. It was a youthful affair
in many respects, and, excepting about ten or
twelve of the poems which it contained, gave
little evidence of what striking achievements
were to follow from the same hand. It called
forth very severe criticism, and in some quar-
ters it even roused a certain horrified dislike.
The author was still in his early twenties. He
had lived for years in France, and had com-
pletely drenched himself with the rather pagan
spirit of modern French literature. The influ-
ence of Charles Baudelaire was strongly mani-
fest in Honey- and Gall; and Baudelaire, even
for a man of trained capacity, must always be
the most dangerous of models. Another marked
fault of this book was the tendency shown by
its author to employ obselete words and weird,
arbitrary neologisms. Every language has its
hospital of disabled adjectives and invalided
verbs, and it would seem as if Mr. Saltus had
been stimulated by a longing to send these un-
fortunates hobbling out again into the healthy
daylight of popular usage. Still, it must be con-
ceded that "The Landscape of Flesh" was a
poem no less powerful than hideous; that "A
Dream of Ice" had undoubted grandeur; that
the verses on "Goya," that ghastly Spanish
painter, were strong in several stanzas, and that
a trifle called "Chinoiserie" had a unique ring,
in spite of some affectation. The general cult-
ure, the familiarity with foreign literatures, and
the poetic sense, now clear-seen and now strug-
gling to find fit expression, were features of
Honey and Gall that chiefly struck an unpreju-
diced reader. It was a remarkable book for a
beginner, but it was evidently a beginner's
book. Its recklessness was sometimes unpar-
donable ; its artistic sins were often more than

peccadillos. But it gave great promise; and
the object of this article is not to speak further
of Honey and Gall^ but to show, as we think
can very conclusively be shown, that its author
has redeemed that promise, in his later poems,
with noteworthy fulfillment.

The Evolution, a New York journal of irreg-
ular excellence and of very bold social views,
has thus far published Mr. Saltus's best verse.
Not long ago the International Review took
occasion to call him, in the course of a certain
book notice, "our American Baudelaire," and it
is doubtless almost solely on account of Mr.
Saltus's work in The Evolution that this strik-
ing bit of eulogy was paid. The Evolution se-
ries has, on the whole, been a very important
one. It began, if we mistake not, with a poem
entitled "Ad Summum Deum," which contains
not a particle of so-called atheism, but a great
deal of revolt, discontent, and of that which or-
thodoxy must of necessity denounce as gross
irreverence. Its first stanza at once strikes the
key-note of all the rest :

"If, O God, thou art eternal,
Most omnipotent, supernal,
Spare us from life's pains diurnal."

The other lines bear one unvarying strain
of arraignment, audacious caviling, and satur-
nine accusation. There is no doubt that few
English -writing poets have ever presumed to
cast aside all trammels of conventional thinking
as the author of "Ad Summum Deum" has done.
The poem may be hated by the majority, for
whom the love of the Deity, vigilant though
unexplained, existent though darkly mysterious,
is a changeless religious tenet. A few will ap-
preciate it alone for the fine technical manage-
ment of its stanzas, and a very few more will
value it because expressing just those moods of
defiant bitterness which are harbored by cer-
tain souls after a crushing grief or a profound
disappointment. The poem continues thus :

"How can I respect thy glory,1
When, through years of myth and story,
Thou appearest stern and gory?

"Can the throngs of souls o'ertaken
By thy wrath, by thee forsaken,
Love and faith in men awaken?

"Can we call thee just and blameless,
When by thy desertion shameless
We still groan here blind and aimless? * *

A NEW POET.

"For thy Son's divine prediction
Must weak mortals in affliction
Wait another Crucifixion?

"Why, if he has died to spare us
From all torments, shouldst thou^bear us
Hate implacable and dare us,

"In our wrechedest prostration
With thine anger's desolation?
Are we not of thy creation?

"If the sun and stars thou makest,
If supreme the stars thou shakest,
If from naught thou something takest,

"Prove it to us, though thou rend us
In divine ways and tremendous —
Thrill us with thy might stupendous 1

We know of nothing in English that at all
resembles this poem. It bears a certain vague
similarity to the verses of Alfred de Musset, be-
ginning :

" Pourquoi~re'ver et deviner un Dieu,"

though the resemblance is one neither of phras-
ing or general treatment, but merely of intel-
lectual gloom and pessimism. Mr. Swinburne,
it is true, touches something of the same chord
in his "Fe'lise" and "The Triumph of Time,"
though between the poetry of Mr. Saltus and
Mr. Swinburne there are very few points in
common. The verse of each is structurally dif-
ferent. The younger poet has drawn nothing
from the elder. Each is original in his way,
but each has a separate voice of his own. We
should say that Victor Hugo, Baudelaire, De
Musset, and Theophile Gautier (as will be
shown afterward) have all gone to the making
of Mr. Saltus. He is essentially and individu-
ally French. Not always, though sometimes,
in the way of careful polish ; for occasionally,
even in his later capable work, he deliberately
refuses to hamper his daring, dusky, or gro-
tesque thought with neat elaboration. But he
is always French, on the other hand, in his dis-
dain of boundary lines that seem impassable to
the average Anglo-Saxon mind. In English
we should say that he had of late chiefly stud-
ied, as regards the way of putting things, Mr.
Tennyson and the succeeding poets of that
school. Not, indeed, the Tennyson of "Godi-
va" and "The Miller's Daughter," but rather
him who gave us such grim, florid, or sensuous
work as "The Vision of Sin," "The Dream of
Fair Women/' and "The Palace of Art." He
has a passion for the double rhyme, and some-
times uses it to the detriment of perfectly spon-
taneous expression in poems of a sustained nar-
rative sort. But he is a rhymer of wonderful
richness and almost unerring correctness.

The second poem of The Evohttion series
eclipsed its predecessor in boldness. It is a
work of pure imagination, executed with a
strong hand, and probably calculated to shock,
by its acrid and merciless sarcasm, nine-tenths
of the readers who have seen it. It is called
"Extermination." "With prescient sight that
pierced the future's distance," the poet is sup-
posed to witness earth as it will exist in twice a
million years from now. In a vision he sees

"Vast populous towns of contour Babylonian,

Temples and palaces imperially rare,
Mazes of marble grandiose and Neronian,
Towering everywhere."

Beauty, form, splendor, grace and magnifi-
cence meet him on all sides, and the race
which inhabits these abodes of grandeur is de-
scribed as creatures

"Who knew but one all-sacred duty,

One cult to which the vilest would adhere :
A perfect love of pure impeccable beauty,
Supreme, immense, sincere !

"The poesy of broad skies, the moaning ocean,
All Nature's glory spoke not to their souls ;
For Art alone they held sublime devotion,
Despising other goals.

"No anthems filled the air, no psalms or psalters
Praised the Creator who had given them birth ;
His name, unknown, was honored by no altars
On this strange perfect earth.

"No voices sang harmonious Te Deums,

No prayerful women bowed with pious plaints,
No roses sighed upon the mausoleums
Of long-loved martyr-saints.

"The woe of Christ to them was but a story,

A pleasing myth of legendary lore,
And in our God's unique stupendous glory
These men believed no more."

And now comes the strange, almost terrific
raison d'etre of this extraordinary poem — not
justifying, many will say, the abundant beauties
of language and delicacies of melody which
prelude and accompany it, yet somehow clad
with a sinister fascination, like that which makes
the tales of Poe entice, while at the same time
they repel us :

"Then, as I gazed upon them in my dreaming,

I saw a man with white majestic head
By frantic crowds from every by-way streaming,
Unto a grim cross led.

"Spat on and stoned in his severe affliction,

He calmly stood, nor did his glances quail ;
Helpless I saw his odious crucifixion, %
Felt every rugged nail

"That tore his feeble palms and feet asunder,
And yet he shrank not, in his pride august,

THE CALIFORNIAN.

While the great hum of voices like a thunder
Exclaimed, 'His pain is just.'

"And all the throng, the haughty and the lowly,

Cried, ' Peerless Beauty, may thy will be done !
This wretch upon our faultless earth, all-holy,
Is now the only one.

" 'No shame, no torture can be too unlawful

To free from his vile feet the ground he trod,
For he who writhes before us, pale and awful,
Dared to believe in God.' "

We have said that this poem contains sar-
casm, and when the reader's first surprise at its
peculiar denoument has worn off, the sarcasm,
we think, becomes more biting in its sharpness.
It is emphatically a poem of imagination, and
not fancy. The whole picture rises before us
with perhaps the hideousness of a nightmare,
but with none of the inaccuracy and contradic-
tion so common among dreams. Its colors
have the baleful glory of a flower that has fed
on rank dampness and noisome exhalations, and
whose perfume bears a deadly keenness. It is
a genuineyfcw du mal\ but, for all that, it is a
flower, full of serpentine symmetry and morbid
splendor.

"Misrepresentation" is the next of the series
under discussion. This has even a bolder grasp
and a wider range. But it is a poem positively
soaked in the night-dews of thought, and seem-
ingly the product of a spirit from which hor-
ror conceals none of her most appaling im-
ageries. It is Mr. Saltus's first attempt in a
new field, which he afterward worked with as-
tonishing power. We mean the building of
certain poetic structures upon the basis of a
scriptural theme. Before we had frequent men-
tion of the Deity and Christ, but as yet he had
formed no poem upon any plan of recognized
biblical legend. He now takes the legend of
the Crucifixion, and daringly makes it serve his
own artistic ends in a way that no reader who
accepts the authenticity of Revelation can read
without a shiver of repulsion. It is probably
the most audacious poem that he has ever
written, and at the same time it abounds in pas-
sages of dazzling beauty. We ask ourselves for
the motives that could have stimulated so fright-
ful a conception, and induced the commingling
of so much radiant eloquence, so much vivid-
hued picturesqueness, with a fantasy of such
grisly and miasmatic origin. It is useless to
seek an answer for this question. " Misrepre-
sentation;? has been written with neither moral
nor immoral motives. Like many other of
Mr. Saltus's poems, it is the product of a mind
which believes that lyric originality and dra-
matic strength may seize their material from
whatever source they choose, and that the one

success resultant from such effort is the vig-
or, freshness, and pervading harmony of the
achievement. If it is ghastly and horrible, if it
shocks rooted beliefs and strikes a blow in the
very face of religious worship, its aim has not,
for this reason, been marred, or its right to ex-
ist at all shaken. The critic may condemn any
such theory if he desires, but he is always con-
scientiously bound, as in the present case, to
show with what consistency it has been carried
out. These are the opening stanzas of "Mis-
representation," and tell their own Dantesque
story:

"In desolate dreams whose memory terrific

Will haunt me to my life's unhappy close,
The ghost of Christ, our' Saviour beatific,
Disconsolately rose.

"Sad years have flown, but still to me are vivid

The angry fevers in his piercing eyes
As he before me stood, erect and livid,
But God-like in no wise.

"The bleeding palms and feet, the blonde beard tan-
gled,

Were changed not since the dolorous day of death ;
I saw the thorn-pressed brow, the lean side mangled,
And heard his hot quick breath ;

" But marked with stupor that no sign of meekness

Dwelt in that face, still marvelously fair,
And that his lips were curled in scornful weakness,
While no prayer lingered there.

"And he whose pure imperishable glory

The fears of men for ages did assuage,
He, the unique, the sweet, the salvatory,
Stood pallid in strong rage.

"And with vindictive voice upon me calling

This poor Redeemer, bartered, murdered, sold —
To me, mute^shivering mortal, an appalling
And hideous story told,

"Which, were it known, and could mankind conceive it,

This strange, weird vision, most sublimely sad,
Would fill with awe the minds that dared believe it,
And make whole nations mad.

"For in this tale of sacrifice and error,

Monstrous narration of bewildering things,
I understood at last Christ's pain and terror,
His unknown sufferings"

We have intentionally italicised the last few
lines quoted, for by their aid the "horror, the
soul of the plot," first dawns upon the soul
of the reader. This haggard spectre then nar-
rates how, as a child, he received, in a vision,
God's charge to be holy, faithful, meek, and
chaste, and afterward to preach the sacred
Word among mankind. Knowledge and wis-
dom then grew within the mind of Christ. Hav-
ing reached maturity, he went forth on his in-
spired mission. His experiences as teacher

A NE W POET.

and reformer are now told in the followin
stanzas, which, for felicity, warmth, tenderness
and exquisite melody, are rivaled by few pas
sages among the loftiest singers of this century

"Ah, now, while my poor spirit wanders sphereless,

Alone in incommensurable space,
I still remember those delicious peerless
Sweet dreamy days of grace !

"When throngs adoring, in that past existence,

Kissed with quick eager lips my passing hem,
While white before me in the sapphire distance
Rose towered Jerusalem !

"And I recall with tomb-touched memories tender,

The Mount of Olives, and each fruitful tree
That nursed blithe birds above the gem-like splendor
Of lakes like Galilee.

"By Him at that hour I was not forsaken,

For in the inner essence of my soul
Poesy's charm to me he did awaken
And gave me its control.

"Then I than earth's most noble bard was greater,

And on my lips inspired there ever hung
The unuttered canticles of my Creator,
Songs that no man has sung.

"And I remember those departed glories,

When Kedron's vales reechoed linnet's songs,
And how I charmed with texts and allegories
The vast attentive throngs ;

"And when, with my disciples, friends, and leaders,

I roamed where Spring had made Gennesaret green,
And how amid fair Bethany's tall cedars
I preached my creed serene ;

' ' With John beside me, Matthew, James, and Peter,

The upright Andrew, the confiding Jude,
Men whose allegiance and whose love made sweeter
The strange life I pursued.

"And I recall those nights when, charmed, I listened

To music of soft ugabs and shophars,
While the blue depths of calm Tiberias glistened
Beneath a world of stars ! "

The phantom of Christ then records how he
was perpetually buoyed up, amid all the trials
which beset him, by divine encouragements;
how, amid disgrace, derision, and curses, he
ever heard that his Father rejoiced in his
strength, and compassed him with sweet, invisi-
ble protection. Then at last came the hour
when he was seized by the Jewish "rabble and
led before Pontius Pilate. But still he believed
firmly in the helpful guardianship of Jehovah,
never suspecting that his enemies would be
permitted the fearful triumph which they after-
ward secured. " Surely," he thought, " I cannot
perish," even when they had nailed him to the
fatal cross. Enoch and Elijah were translated
to Heaven. Why should he fear? How, in-
deed,

"Could he, this God superb and powerful,

Take life like mine, when He had said to me,
1 More great than kings thou shalt be on the flowerful
Green slopes of Galilee !' "

Hanging on the cross between the two thieves,
he waited for help, but no help came.

This weird and unearthly poem, so full of
savage majesty and solemnity, ends with these
lines, spoken by him who is supposed to have
dreamed the doleful dream of which they form
the substance :

"Then, the sad silence of my vision rending,

I heard a wail of terrible despair,
And saw a hundred spectral hands, descending,
Clutch at his gory hair. . . .

"Twas o'er. . . . The martyr's ghost far from me flut-
tered ;

Sighing, I woke and, gaining thought's control,
Suddenly felt the truth of all he uttered,
And terror seized my soul.' "

The next poem deals with the Old Testament
story of the Witch of En -dor and Saul. Mr.
Saltus's version of this legend is entirely his
own. Shumma, an Israelitish harlot, passion-
ately loves Saul, the King. She watches him
march to battle, exults in his victories, dreams
of him by night and day, yet never can win
from him the lover-like heed for which her soul
thirsts. Observe the splendid force and rich-
ness of this passage :

'And I in dreams saw battles raging frantic.

Swift-hurrying steeds and labyrinths of spears ;

I heard the clash of tzinnahs and the cheers,
And, over all, I saw him tower gigantic.

'A diadem upon his brows, and weighted

With glistening greaves, a carnage-god most grand,
While in the supple terror of his hand

His massive, reeking chanith scintillated.

'Ah, sweet Jehovah blest, was he not glorious
The day the gross Amalekites he slew
And dragged Agag, their king, and retinue
Captive and gyved unto his towns victorious !

'Yes, and I loved his blind impetuous valor
The towering passion of his soul and eyes,
His brawny torso and his battle-cries,

And all that face that never knew fear's pallor.

'And when, war-worn, he feasted to restore him
From sullen thought, I, with his slaves, would

come,

And, to the sound of timbrel and of drum,
Would dance in stately palace-ways before him."

Note the marvelous picturesqueness of that
nal line, which is one of many similar touches
hat fill this stately, Hebraic -tinged poem,
humma now tells of how the day at length ar-
ived when the legions of the Midianites in-
aded Gilboa. Saul, fearful of coming disas-

THE CALIFORNIAN.

ter, and with eyes where "gleamed the fires of
madness," goes to consult the witch of En -dor
in her dismal cave amid the wilderness. Shum-
ma personates this witch, clad in rags, which
conceal beneath their foulness a luxurious robe.
"Fasting, pale, and by his God forsaken," the
unhappy Saul comes to her, goaded with dark
presentiments of calamity. Then the false sibyl
burns strange mephitic drugs in a caldron, and
causes her slaves to personate phantoms, which
rise one by one in the misty gloom of the cave.
At length Saul falls prone upon the earth in
livid fear. Shumma then ends her sorceries,
and prepares for him a refreshing feast, of
which Saul presently partakes. When the sub-
tle and powerful wines have warmed him into
new life and vigor, the wily Shumma flings
aside her disguise, and stands before the king
in glowing, gem -adorned beauty. Fascinated
and bewildered, Saul yields at last to the al-
lurements of her charms. He hears the story
of Shumma's subterfuge, and amorously par-
dons her. He tells her that she has "tossed to
gloom all brooding superstitions," and that he
will go on the morrow fearlessly with his sons,
Jonathan and Abinadab, "to rend the mongrel
hordes" that oppose him. But still, though
desperately enamored of Shumma, and inspired
by fresh courage and confidence, he questions
her as to whether she saw all the phantoms
that appeared in the cave. Haunted by an
unconquerable doubt, he asks her :

" 'Didst thou behold or bring about the horrid
Dire shadow, draped in mysteries of white,
The accusing figure of a Midianite,
That hurled dull blood unto my burning forehead?
******

" 'Didst thou see all?1 .... 'Yea, yea,' again I told

him.

'This canst thou swear?' .... 'Aye, have no fool-
ish dread.'

And, sighing, on his breast I drooped my head,
And with soft arms did languidly enfold him.

"Gone were the visions, terrible and hated,

Gone were the pains my kisses strove to heal,
While by his side, like a great ghost of steel,
His mighty massive chanith scintillated."

At dawn Saul goes forth from the cave, "to
Gilboa and to death," leaving Shumma in
ecstasy at her conquest, and undreaming of the
immediate doom that awaits her new princely
lover. Thus the poem ends. It is probably
the longest that Mr. Saltus has yet published.
Its faults are an over -luxuriance of expression
— a tropical excess of expletives. But in a
young poet this may scarcely be termed a fault,
and in these days of cream-tinted mediocrity it
is almost refreshing to find opulence and liber-

ality of phrase. Indeed, what shall we say of
such a tendency, when, as in the early part of
the poem, describing the despondence of Saul,
it gives us a stanza so incomparably beautiful
as this :

"For deadly dreams and fantasies would seize him,
His valorous veins would bound with unknown

fears,

While David, moved by his infuriate tears,
Would throb his moaning heart's soul forth to please
him.'1'

Nothing could be finer than that last sinewy
yet aeolian line, and we have no hesitation in
saying that only a man in whose soul dwelt the
essential spirit of song could have written any-
thing so faultlessly tender. But, after all, the
poem abounds in many such lines and passages.
Even those who would decry it as a whole for
being uselessly unwholesome, must admit the
shining literary merits of its composition. And
if we give their niches to Heine, Baudelaire,
and Poe, why refuse like honor to one who has
steeped his spirit in no darker shadows, while
walking among them with feet as firm and fear-
less?

Better, to our thinking, than any of the poems
in this scriptural series, is "Potiphar's Wife,"
whose appearance followed that of "The Witch
of En-dor." It is set in the same key as "Mis-
representation;" that is, a ghost addresses the
poet — a homeless spirit, uttering low sighs, tort-
ured with unrest, "all Egypt's beauty blooming
in her face," and "clasping a mantle in one
shadowy hand."

This is the ghost of Potiphar's wife, who re-
cords, in a melancholy and passionate wail, her
love for Joseph, while hovering above the tomb
in which he lies buried. The shred of mantle
that she holds is the legendary one torn from
Joseph as he fled. She now moans for his par-
don, saying:

"See, thy fair mantle in my hand I hold,
A shred of thee, as sacred as thy kiss,
Far holier than the heart of Anubis ;
And though the joys of Paradise I miss,
Still have I clung to it as worlds grow old."

But at length the poet himself says :

"In the vague gray gloaming I could see
The poor, unpardoned ghost caress the mound
Where envied pity she had never found,
Prostrate and humble on the leafy ground,
Clutching the mantle in dumb agony.

"And when her lamentations seemed to cease,
To this distracted spirit, love-denied,
A dull, sepulchral voice at last replied,
And from the crypt's deep gloom in anger cried,
'Away, thou specter harlot. Give me peace.'"

A NEW POET.

This is less artificial in conception!, more le-
gitimately and naturally dramatic, more appeal-
ing through spontaneous pathos, and more
soundly effective in its tragedy, than anything
which Mr. Saltus has yet done. In that final
line, spoken by a voice from the depths of the
tomb, we have all the typical chastity of Joseph,
whose name has come down to us through the
centuries as the very incarnation of such icy
rectitude as can never feel one qualm of real
temptation. But the workmanship of "Poti-
phar's Wife" is somehow inferior to that of the
other poems. It has beautiful passages — what
one of Mr. Saltus's poems has not? — but the
ghost's passion seems to us in places somewhat
turgid and hysterical. Surely not so, however,
when she exquisitely says :

" Blame for my sin, if sin it be, 'alone
The curves symmetric of thy perfect limbs ;
Blame the grave music of Hebraic hymns,
The memory of thy voice, that nothing dims ;
Blame my frail heart, that could not be of stone.

4 ' Blame the voluptuous murmur of the Nile,
The pomp and glitter of my home, the palm
That shaded every reverie, the calm
Of torrid star-thronged nights, the gentle balm
Of dreamy wines— but, above all, thy smile.

That line, "the grave music of Hebraic
hymns," is a wonderful bit of felicity, and de-
serves a permanent place in the language of
quotations, like Keats's "large utterance of the
early gods/' or Tennyson's

"Music that softer on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes."

Strange enough, the last poem in this series
is one that utterly forsakes the realm of lurid
imagination. It is entitled "The Cross Speaks."
The cross on which Christ was crucified tells
of how it stood for years in towering stateliness,
"the lord of cedars," in the holy woods of Leb-
anon. Below it "roamed the solemn peace-
eyed herds," while winds from the Grecian seas
caressed it. Its life was full of sanctity. In
the distance it saw the towers and spires of
Sidon. But one evening "strange men with
shining blades" passed through the wood where
it grew.

"Then to the core they struck me with sharp steel;
I felt the sap within my veins congeal ;

I writhed and moaned at every savage blow.
And I, whose strength had braved the fiercest storm,
Tottered and fell, a mutilated form,

While all the forest waved its leaves in woe."

The tree is then fashioned into a cross, and
dragged "down to the holy town, Jerusalem,"
there to give death to those condemned by the
law. The city's thieves are nailed upon it, one
by one, as time lapses. Its "wood is soiled by

blood and split by nails ;" wild cries echo from
it; "oppressed by carrion weights," it lives for
weeks "in one mad hell of harrowing wails."
The final eight stanzas of the poem had best be
given entire, since no descriptive paraphrase
could do justice to their swift, brilliant, and yet
pathetic beauty :

' ' Then came a dark and sacrilegious day
Of crime, of malediction, of dismay.

Rude soldiers tore me from the hated ground,
And brought me, with foul oaths and many a jeer,
Before one pale sweet man, who without fear

Did tower above them, god-like, nettle-crowned.

" Shrill voices, formed to curse and to abuse,
Cried, choked with scorn, ' Ignoble King of Jews,

Save thyself now, if that thou hast the power.'
But he, the meek one, resolutely caught
My hideous body to him, and said naught,

And God was with us in that awful hour !

"Thrilled by his touch, a sense I never knew
Sudden within my callous fibers grew,

Warning my spirit he was pure and good.
And I could feel that he was Christ divine,
And that a deathless honor then was mine ;

In one dark instant I had understood !

"The raucous shouts of thousands rent the air
When on his outraged shoulders, scourged and bare,

He bore to dismal Calvary and night
My ponderous weight, my all-unhallowed mass,
While I, God-strengthened, strove and strove — alas,

Without a hope ! — to make the burden light.

"He perished on my heart, and heard the moan
That shuddered through me — he, and he alone.

But no man heard the promise he gave me
Of sweetest pardon, nor did any mark
His pitying smile that aureoled the dark

For me, in that wild hour on Calvary.

"When tender women's hands, that sought to save,
Had carried his sweet body to the grave,

A streak of flame hissed forth from heaven, and

rent

My trunk with one annihilating blow,
Leaving me prostrate, charred, too vile to know
That I was nothing, and God was content.

" But he who punished my sad sin with fire,
Forsook me not in my abasement dire,

And mercifully bade my soul revive,
To take new spells of life that all might see —
With beauty far exceeding any tree,

Once more with resurrected leaves to thrive.

"And now, in verdurous calm, adored of birds,
Circled by flowers, and by the tranquil herds

That love beneath my stateliness to browse,
I dream in peace, through hours of sun and gloom,
And near unto the Saviour's worshiped tomb

I wave my soft and sympathizing boughs."

This is very beautiful and forcible, but we
think a mistake has been made in having the
cross speak of its "sad sin" being punished by
God ; since, as Mr. Saltus manages his legend,

THE CALIFORN2AN.

the episode of Christ's death upon the cross
was something for which its own mere passive
compulsion could not possibly have made it
blameworthy. Then, too, the stanza begin-
ning, "He perished on my heart," shows, to our
mind, a management as awkward as it is un-
characteristic of the author. We have, in the
second line, the pronouns "me," "he," and "he"
once again, while each is immediately after-
ward repeated in the third line, making an un-
pleasant clash, and suggesting constructive
weakness, whatever may have been the writer's
real intention. But these are minor faults, and
easily passed over amid the ^manifold excel-
lences of the poem. Certainly there is nothing
here to shock or wound the most exacting read-
er. Let him disapprove ever so strongly of
"art for art's sake," he cannot but grant that art
has been employed in "The Cross Speaks" only
for sweet, healthful ends and uses. The whole
poem has the fervid sincerity, the mingled elo-
quence and ingenuity, which marks so many of
Victor Hugo's lyrics. The idea vaguely .re-
minds us of Hugo ; he might easily have chosen
and used it, and had he done so, the great
master's general treatment would probably not
have been dissimilar to the one here employed.
Mr. Saltus is a most skillful sonneteer. It is
in this branch of poetry that his love for Thd-
ophile Gautier becomes chiefly apparent. He
builds his octaves and sextets usually after the
most approved Tuscan model. And he has
drawn his inspiration in sonnet -writing, too, at
first hand, having studied the famous Italian
singers for years. It is not long ago that he
showed his able mastery of the Italian language
by the following scholarly sonnet to Mr. Long-
fellow, of whose poetry he is said to be a pro-
found admirer :

"AD ENRICO W. LONGFELLOW.

' ' Dopo la lettura del siio Capo Lavoro sul Ponte Vecchio
di Firenze.

"Scritto hai di luoghi al cor Toscano santi
Dell' Arno e di Santa Maria del Fiore :
D'Amalfi tutta rose ed amaranti,

Di Roma augusta in tutto il suo splendore !

"Rifulge Italia d'immortali incanti,

Nei versi che t'inspira ardente il core,
E le sue glorie, i pregi, i prieghi, i pianti,
Trovano un' eco in te sempre d'amore !

"E della bella Italia tu sei degno:

Che a te Iasci6 Petrarca l'armonioso

Plettro d'amor ; Boccaccio il suo sorriso.
Ma di Dante il sublime e forte ingegno,
Rese il tuo spirto grande e vigoroso :

Ne mai il tuo nome fia del suo diviso 1"

French sonnets and lyrics of great grace and
charm Mr. Saltus has also frequently written,

and he has repeatedly given evidence of pos-
sessing the very rare power to translate English
poems into French with great fidelity and liter-
alness, while at the same time preserving all
the force and finish of the originals. It may
be said here, in passing, that the English, Ger-
man, French, Italian, and Spanish languages
have no secrets for him, while he is acquainted
with numerous European dialects, and has con-
siderable knowledge of Russian and Turkish.
Let us take one or two of his English sonnets.
This, for example, which we think he wrongly
entitles "Graves," and should call "The Night-
Wind," is absolutely perfect in every way :

"The sad night-wind, sighing o'er sea and strand,

Haunts the cold marble where Napoleon sleeps ;
O'er Charlemagne's grave, far in the northern land,

A vigil through the centuries it keeps.

O'er Greecian kings its plaintive music sweeps ;
Proud Philip's tomb is by its dark wings fanned ;
And round old Pharaohs (deep in desert sand,

Where the grim Sphinx leers to the stars) it creeps.
Yet weary it is of this chill, spectral gloom ;

For moldering grandeurs it can have no care.
Rich mausoleums, in their granite doom,

It fain would leave, and wander on elsewhere,
To cool the violets upon Gautier's tomb

Or lull the long grass over Baudelaire."

We have only space for another sonnet of Mr.
Saltus, a masterpiece of color, music and passion:

THE BAYADERE.

" Near strange weird temples, where the Ganges' tide
Bathes domed Delhi, I watch, by spice trees fanned,
Her agile form in some quaint saraband,
A marvel of passionate chastity and pride,
Nude to the loins, superb and leopard-eyed.
With redolent roses in her jeweled hand,
Before some haughty Rajah, mute and grand,
Her flexible torso bends, her white feet glide !
The dull kinoors throb one monotonous tune,
And mad with motion, as in a hasheesh trance,
Her scintillant eyes, in vague ecstatic charm,
Burn like black stars beneath the Orient moon,
While the suave dreamy langour of the dance
Lulls the grim drowsy cobra on her arm."

From the copious examples we have given, it
must have become apparent to any reader that
this young poet is a genius of very distinct and
notable endowments. Never was promise of
future greatness more abundantly given, and
seldom has a man scarcely past his thirtieth
year made for himself so stately a monument of
accomplished work. He is so full of power that
even those who dislike must recognize him;
and while there is much in his work that the
average newspaper critic will neither under-
stand nor tolerate, there is also much that the
literary age to which he belongs must of neces-
sity welcome and value.

ABNER D. CARTWRIGHT.

THE GARDENS OF THE SEA-SHORE.

If we would get at the secrets of Nature, and
be enabled to read her works with understand-
ing minds, we must learn her language, and
get the meaning, in the first place, of her sim-
plest and commonest words. We must under-
stand the first principles of her language, as re-
vealed in the beginnings of things. Without
this the study of the earth and the planets, the
stars and space, motion and force, would be
comparatively fruitless.

I propose, therefore, to consider some of the
first of organic forms — the letters that make up
the words, and the words that make the sen-
tences, that may be read in the rocks, in the
waters, and in the air.

In the study of marine botany we have to
deal with the beginnings of life. Here we find
protoplasm and the cell in their primitive, sim-
plest form, easiest to recognize and understand.
Without seeing the machinery of life thus sim-
plified, we can hardly form a distinct idea of the
intricacies as seen in the progressive forms of
plants and animals.

What that force is that is planted in a bit of
plastic matter — or, more properly speaking,
what that principle is that exists as a center,
and draws about it material from all direc-
tions, yet has no limit of wall or membrane,
reaching out and commanding the atoms to
fall into line and march to some definite de-
sign— science does not tell us. It is beyond
the sense of vision, aided by the best of micro-
scopes. Chemistry or natural philosophy can-
not unfold it. It is, possibly, an infinitesimal
brain, with sympathies wide as the universe,
yet home so narrow that it cannot be meas-
ured by any of the means at our command; a
principle of illimitable possibilities, and yet it
has been impossible for the human mind, so
far, to comprehend it. We have called it vitality,
or the life principle. It is that force which takes
hold of matter and rearranges its elements,
forming them into definitely shaped bodies, that
move and grow, and then die and fall to pieces.
It differs from chemical affinity; and yet, as
an eminent microscopist has said, "there is
on the one hand the drop of resin gum or mu-
cus, held together by the natural chemical affin-
ity, and on the other hand there are certain liv-
ing beings so exceedingly simple in structure
that they may be compared to a drop of gum or
mucus, but from which they are distinguished

by being held together and animated by the
affinity which is called the principle of life?

It has been held by some that life is but a
mechanism, that runs for a time and then stops
— a living machine, in which matter is decom-
posed and its elements rearranged. "Molecu-
lar machinery" is the term, existing in matter,
conditioned so that it may run for a season and
then cease. But there is something that condi-
tions this machinery, that supplies the anima-
tion, that generates the vitality, that designs the
shape of the body, and that superintends all the
processes of growth, maturity, death, and disin-
tegration ; something that makes the tall forest
tree, the monster whale, and the humble sea-
weed, into such different patterns from simple
cells not distinguishable by our senses from
each other.

But our purpose is not to speculate about the
unknowable, but rather to consider a few things,
plain and simple, coming so near the hand of
the Maker that some of us think we almost
know how the work is done, and that we are
nearly wise enough to do it ourselves. The
probability, however, is that we are as distant
from a solution of the mystery of life, and know
as little of it. as we know of some almost invis-
ible star that went down last evening behind
the western sea.

Impressions of sea -weeds are found in the
oldest sedimentary rocks, and are doubtless the
earliest of organized things. The plant pre-
ceded the animal. Its duty was and is to pre-
pare the mineral kingdom for ready appropria-
tion by the animal. The sea brought forth
plants and animals in abundance before there
was any dry land. At certain times and places
the plant-growths in the sea must have been very
abundant. They were of such a tender and
evanescent growth that, with few exceptions,
all signs of their existence have disappeared.
I may mention here that one large and inter-
esting family of the Algae, the Diatoms, made
up of a silicious frame- work, admired and stud-
ied by all microscopists, has been left in large
deposits, adding much to the bulk of sediment-
ary rocks. Some portions of the mountains on
the northern shore of Monterey Bay are largely
made up of minerals that are the result of ma-
rine plants — silex, lime, and alumina. How im-
portant and extensive, then, must have been
these plants when the sea covered the earth's

THE CALIFORNIAN.

surface almost, if not quite, universally! By
them the water was kept in purity, so that ani-
mals might live therein. And all the way down
through the epochs of the earth's progress they
have continued, and still continue, to exert a
salutary influence.

There are but few, if any, deserts in the sea.
Almost every drop teems with spores of plants,
and in many places the waters are so filled with
dense tangles of vegetation that ships cannot
pass through. So it has become proverbial that
the sea is our mother. Even the same word in
many languages is used for sea and for mother.
In a poetical sense the poet Wordsworth says :

"Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither."

The currents which exist in all oceans carry
the spores of sea -weed to all the coasts, and
there, if the surroundings are favorable, they
grow. In all the explored latitudes sea -weeds
abound. The number of species decreases as
we approach the poles, but the quantity is not
lessened. I have said there are few deserts in
the sea. The water is full of microscopic kinds
in all latitudes. But sea-weeds rarely grow on
sand, unless it is of a very compact form.
When the sea -bottom is of loose sand, as it is
in many places, Algae will not grow there;
hence, there are many submerged deserts as
plantless as the African wastes.

With but one or two exceptions, all the ma-
rine plants belong to the class known as Algce.
They are cellular plants, with no system of ca-
nals or tubes running through them to carry
fluids, as in ferns and flowering plants. The
circulation is carried from cell to cell through
the cell-wall by the process known in physics
as osmosis. They derive their nourishment al-
most entirely from the water. Their roots serve
more for hold-fasts than to derive nourishment
from the material on which they grow. Al-
though some forms of Algaa have root, stem,
and leaf, there are many kinds that consist of a
simple cell. Generally these cells are in mass-
es, and imbedded in a jelly-like material, but
each cell is independent of its neighbor, and
there is no union of mind to form a body. Then,
again, these cells have a common purpose to
spread into a leaf, or membrane, or to form in
lines, and present a cylindricarbody, with, per-
haps, a membraneous expansion at the summit.
Some continue in strait lines, with joints at reg-
ular distances. Others tend to branch at these
joints, just as a bud starts out from the axis of
a leaf. Some cling to the rocks and stems of
other sea -weeds so closely that they seem a
part of the rock or plant on which they grow.

Some are hard and brittle, like coral, some
leathery and tough, while others are thin and
fine as silk, and as fragile as the web of a spi-
der. Some float in the water, growing on each
other in immense fields, at the centers of ocean
currents, like the Sargassum. Indeed, there
seems to be as great a diversity of form in
plants of the sea as in plants of the land, but
less intricacy. In fact, there is, to my mind, no
good reason why marine botany should not
precede the study of the terrestrial. While it
makes but little difference where we begin, we
find that all roads lead to it as the beginning of
the science. It seems "as if Nature had first
formed the types (in the waters) of the com-
pound vegetable organs, so named, and exhib-
ited them as separate vegetables, and then, by
combining them in a single frame -work, had
built up her perfect idea of a fully organized
plant."

Suppose, for a few moments, we glance at a
few types of plants as we see them in the line
of progress from the simplest form to the most
complex. We will not attempt to follow the
links of the chain — that would be too difficult,
and require too much time — -but merely take
up a plant, here and there, familiar to all.

Growing on the smooth surface of perpen-
dicular cliffs, in this neighborhood, may be seen,
during the rainy season, one of the water-plants,
appearing on the rocks like a coating of red or
dark brown paint. It looks, in some places, as
though blood had been brushed on the banks.
Under the microscope, we may see that it is a
one-celled plant, surrounded with a kind of
gelatine ; in fact, it grows in patches, or commu-
nities. Each cell is of globular shape, and in-
dependent of its neighbors, so far as its life-his-
tory is concerned, although the gelatine belongs
to the community. Its growth is similar to the
"red snow," of which nearly everybody has
some information. By some naturalists it is
called Palmellaj by others, Porphyridium. It
is classed among the fresh water Algae.

Let us take one cell, or plant, as we find it in
the mass of gelatine — round, full, blood -red.
Watching it for a little while, we begin to see a
tendency towards division. A thin wall is
thrown across the middle, and soon we have a
separation, each half becomes an independent
cell. These again divide; and so the process
of binary division goes on for a good many
generations. We see no reason why.it should
stop until the whole world, and the universe, is
full of the little microscopic Palmellas. But
they have a different mind, and in one of these
numerous generations a change takes place.
Instead of the little round cell dividing, as here-
tofore, we see it filled with a different kind of

THE GARDENS OF THE SEA-SHORE.

endochrome, chlorophyl, or cell -matter, as we
are pleased to call it, from the cells we have
been noticing. They burst, and from each hole
in the cell issues swarms of spores. These are
exceedingly small, and armed with cilia — fine,
thread-like projections — so that the spores
move, by means of these cilia, through the wa-
ter, or air, as the case may be. Now, here is a
new form of life-development, the product of a
cell, and yet very different from the parent.
They move with great rapidity, in every direc-
tion, when set free in water. They seem to be
animals; and were they to remain, and con-
tinue to exhibit the same activity, for any con-
siderable time, we could not distinguish them
from many forms of life which are known to be
animals. But in a little while — say an hour or
two — they seek lodgment, and come to rest.
The cilia fall off, they increase in size, and soon
we find a well developed cell, just like the one
we commenced with, ready to go through the
process of "binary division" through certain
generations, until it reaches the reproductive
cell again. Now, this is the life of a plant con-
sisting of a single cell, one of the smallest forms
of Algae, that can be seen only with the micro-
scope, unless in large masses. It is also, per-
haps, one of the simplest forms. Yet it exhibits
a mind of a similar character to that of some
forms of animal life; especially in the little
round of development it makes, reminding us
of the Aphides, or "plant lice," and other ani-
mals of a still more complex organization, or
rather differentiation, but far removed from the
simple plant of a single cell.

Let us look for a moment at another little
plant found in streams and pools of fresh wa-
ter; for it seems these little, almost insignifi-
cant, things are too fragile for rough handling
in the sea, or to endure the salt water, so we
find them about springs and shallow waters.
It belongs to a small tribe of plants called Nos-
tocs. It consists, instead of separate and al-
most independent cells, as in the Palmella, of a
filament distinctly beaded, and lying in a firm,
gelatinous mass of somewhat regular shape.
These filaments are usually simple or but sel-
dom branched. They are curved and twisted
in various direction, but having a tendency
mainly toward a spiral direction. The masses
of jelly that contain these filaments are some-
times of considerable size, and suddenly appear
after a rain in places that were apparently dry
before. It is only with a microscope that the
filaments can be seen in the jelly. Now, one
of the peculiar features of this plant is that at
regular .distances on the beaded filaments can
be seen one or more beads larger and more dis-
tinct, as if the mind of the plant, after making

ordinary cells for a long time, suddenly changed,
and made and intervened a peculiar kind of cell,
differing in many respects from the common
kind. As well as we can understand, these
cysts, which are called heterocysts, are in some
way so changed for purposes of reproduction.
This Nostoc, then, is increased in several ways :
i. By one cell growing ("budding") on the
side or end of another, extending in a continu-
ous line to form a filament of definite size and
in a definite direction. 2. Division of the fila-
ment by breaking up of the jelly when wet or
dry, as the case may be, each fragment serving
as a nucleus for a fresh colony of threads. 3.
By the escape of a subdivision of filament,
around which, in the course of time, a gelatine
is formed, and a continuation of growth. These
two methods correspond to "cuttings." 4. By
spores, which are formed in the heterocysts, or
enlarged cells, that I have mentioned. These
spores are of two kinds contained in these ves-
icles or cysts, contiguous to each other. They
are different from the endochrome that is found
in the common cells. They are more like zo-
ospores, or animal spores, and some of them
have cilia moving freely through the water, sim-
ilar to many other water plants and fungi con-
taining "swarm spores." This method corre-
sponds to the seeds or fruiting of flowering
plants.

We will glance now at another plant found
growing on the rocks in all our seas — a beauti-
ful, feathery, deep green little plant, looking like
a small fern, or branches from a fir tree. It is
called Bryopsis plumosa. Each frond and
frondlet consists of a single tube, straight and
round. The walls of the tube are made up, as
usual, of little cells, closely fitted to each other,
a thin, transparent structure. These tubes taper
to each end, where they are closed nearly, if
not quite. The plant grows from a base hav-
ing a number of branches, tree-like. The plume
is generally confined to the upper half of the
frond, and the deep green color is given to it
by the chlorophyl filling these tubes. This,
when mature, escapes from the plant by the
bursting of the tube, and is the means of its
propagation, in the form of zoospores. Thus
we have in this plant several things. We have
a root, which, although of little use to convey nu-
triment to the fronds, serves as a hold-fast. It
is a single elongated cell or tube, containing
starchy matter and a slightly fibrous structure.
From this arises a single tube, branching by
buds from the side. These branches come off
pinnately, and instead of a single cell filled with
cell-matter (endochrome), we have little cases,
slightly connected, surrounded by a cellular
membrane, in which the processes of its simple

THE CALIFORNIAN.

life are carried on. The mind of this plant is
toward a symmetrical structure, sufficiently dif-
ferentiated to look toward a higher type and
greater complexity — a root, a stem, a frond,
all constructed out of single, but much en-
larged, cells, each one being an elongated tube,
built into a beautiful little tree of the most ex-
quisitely green shade.

Common on the rocks of our sea coast grows
a species of Halidrysy commonly called the
"sea-oak." It is a stout plant, with leaves cut
and lobed, somewhat resembling certain species
of oak. I mention it rather for contrast than
comparison with the several plants we have
been looking at. It belongs to the Order of
Fucacice, and is closely related to the Sargas-
sum of nearly all the temperate and tropical
seas. It has a root which seems to adhere by
means of a sort of cartilaginous disk spread-
ing over the surface of rocks. It often grows
to be seven or eight feet long. In this case the
tips of the branches are composed of long
strings of air-vessels, growing from the tips of
the broad, leaf- like frond, and branching nu-
merously, so that when these become tangled,
it is very difficult to unfasten them. The first
growth from the root is a flat leaf, mid-veined,
and from this the frond proceeds. This leaf is
six or eight inches in length. As the plant
grows older, the mid-rib of this first leaf is bor-
dered with lobes, and these gradually develop
into cysts, or air-vessels, and surmounting all
these we find the fruit, situated in spore-cavi-
ties, or cells, especially arranged for perfecting
the seed for new plants. In this plant we no-
tice what we have not noticed before. The
whole structure contributes toward a fruiting
process, located, not in all the cells, but in a
special part of the plant, and by a special kind
of cells. We also see the whole plant contrib-
uting to another special function — the air-ves-
sels, which are for the purpose of suspending
the plant in the water. We likewise see what
might be called leaves, with mid-ribs attached
to the frond. We find a thick and dense cellu-
lar structure, having, in the old plant, but lit-
tle appearance of the delicate cells we noticed
in the plants we have been looking at.

The features of this coarse sea-weed have
been added step by step from the little moving
spore that found a crevice in the side of a rock
in which to plant itself, throwing off cell after
cell to make the root and the leaf; an expand-
ing of the lobes ; a change to air-vessels ; a
throwing in here and there, as needed, of con-
nective tissue ; and, finally, the construction of
a little chamber, at the tips of the plant, lined
with silky threads, in which the spores for the
new plant may grow and mature.

Now, after considering this matter, may we
not repeat what is true and has been taught in
phenogamic botany for many years : that all
the organs of a plant are transformed leaves.
But we may take a step still nearer the begin-
ning of organic things, and say, with equal
truth, that all plants and all animals are but
transformed cells. At least, we may say they
are formed of cells, each one of which, at some
period of its living existence, was a simple, inde-
pendent being. They have become ft& formed
material of the bodies of plants and animals.
Comparatively speaking, there are very few liv-
ing cells.

The proportion of the living to the dead, or
formed, matter is as the thin, narrow surface of
the living coral insects to the mass of the coral
island. When a cell has fulfilled its office, it
dies, and is either thrown away or enters into
the composition of the body in which it grew,
to carry out the form of that body according to
the mind which presides in, over, and about the
organism. A cell may be considered an organ-
ic unit, and whatever its elementary composi-
tion may be depends on the use it is intended
to serve in Nature's endless diversity of forms.

After long and careful investigation, with pa-
tience and years, some of our naturalists have
almost arrived at the conclusion that many of
what are classed among the lower plants and
animals as distinct forms, species, and genera,
are of doubtful character, and are but spores, or
cells, that will possibly, and in some cases cer-
tainly, change into something else. Thus some
of the plants that we have been looking at are
liable to change, before our eyes, into some-
thing quite different from the parent ; as the
little string of beads in the Nostoc filament
suddenly develops into a large, round vesicle or
two, or four, and then suddenly relapses again
into the common little cell. I do not know that
we can call this development. Nature seems
suddenly to have changed her mind, and we
have a flying, egg-laying Aphis after many gen-
erations of a helpless, wingless, plant -eating
parasite. We have a Lichen which is suspected
as originating from a Nostoc. And, indeed, all
our orders of Lichens are suspected by some
as being only escaped Algas, and held in prison
by fungi. There are green coatings low down
on shaded walls, fences, rocks, trunks of trees,
and sometimes on the ground, when it and
these are damp. These may be seen at all
seasons of the year. They are generally single
cell plants. They are called Protococcus, Plete-
rococcuS) Cklorococcus, etc., by botanists. It is
possible they belong to something else — are a
part of some process of development, which,
for the time being, is delayed in its progress to-

THE GARDENS OF THE SEA-SHORE.

ward a higher state of existence ; or, quite as
likely, they never reach beyond their present
form, and that their little round of existence
ends with the dissolution of the walls_and gran-
ules that compose their cells.

I have used the word "differentiation" in the
sense of special organs, "each performing ac-
tions peculiar to itself, which contribute to the
life of a plant as a whole? Differentiation"leads
to a composite fabric, as stem, leaves, roots,
flowers, fruit, etc, I can see no reason why the
number of organs should invalidate or consti-
tute any organism to recognition as such.
Whether the plant has one cell, or an indefinite
number, and a complex organization, matters
but little with independence and individuality.
For we may compare an animal, or plant, to a
populous town where each person follows his
own vocation, yet all helping in the general pros-
perity.

Lately, Edmond Perrier, at the Museum of
Natural History in Paris, advanced some new
views in regard to this subject. They are prob-
ably not new to those who have considered
transformations of plants and animals from
their earlier beginnings. But M. Perrier may
be the first one to publish these views. He
says: "The law which I now have to put for-
ward may be called the law of association, and
the process by which it works, the transforma-
tion of societies into individuals? He has ref-
erence to colonial societies in which the indi-
viduals are almost, if not quite, in contact by
continuity of tissue. For example : Polyps, as
illustrated in the sponge and the coral. The
animals of the colony are independent individ-
uals, as may be proved by separating one or
more of them from the group, when they will
live and start a new colony. What, then, is a
sea -weed/ a cabbage, or a tree, but a colony of
independent plants, associated and working for
a common interest and object? So we have a
system of form, color, and regularity of struct-
ure, according to the mind that is in, over, and
about every living organism. What that mind
really is we do not clearly see, we do not fully
know. But as Dr. Carpenter, the world -re-
nowned scientist, has lately said: "I deem it
just as absurd and illogical to affirm that there
is no place for a God in nature, originating, di-
recting, and controlling its forces by his will, as
it is to assert that there is no place in man's
body for his conscious mind." The application
of science by the human intellect is limited.
Professor Tyndall likens our minds to "a mu-
sical instrument with a certain range of notes,
beyond which, in both directions, exists infinite
silence. The phenomena of matter and force
come within our intellectual range, but behind,

and above, and around us, the real mystery of
the universe lies unsolved, and, as far as we
are concerned, is incapable of solution."

But, because we are placed in the midst of
the infinite, there is no reason why we should
not strive to solve all the problems within the
range of our power. Moreover, that range has
unknown limits to us. We know not how far
in either direction we may be able to see and
to comprehend. The fields of research in sci-
ence are fruitful whichever way we look. Ev-
ery fact we discover adds to our mental vista.
Every well tested phenomenon is an aid to dis-
covery. We are strengthened and enlightened
as we proceed. It may seem of little account
to plod over a pile of sea -weeds, or even to
study the beautiful forms and colors that per-
tain to some of them, to admire the arrange-
ment and structure of their cells, to learn their
long Latin names, and perhaps worry no little
in their classification and arrangement. And
so it is of little account if we are to stop here.
They are but the ABC, or, at best, short words,
that go to make up the language that Nature
speaks. For

"To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language."

No two plants have the same mind, or the
same language to express that mind. The Ner-
cocystis, with its long thread, or rope-like stem,
crowned with a wide expanse of leaves floating
over the water, on which, in places, the sea-
otter feeds and sleeps, has a long history of sea-
faring life to tell us, in words old and strange,
dating back to a period when "the spirit of God
moved upon the face of the waters" for the first
time — an ancient language, yet always new to
each succeeding generation ; never a dead lan-
guage, save to those who will not at least try to
read it.

Of a different mind, and a different language,
are the pines that whisper over our heads in
tongues more modern, and more complex,

"The murmuring pines, and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green;"

while,

"Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neigh-
boring ocean

Speaks, and, in accents disconsolate, answers the
wail of the forest."

But the voices of Nature are only audible in a
poetical sense. Her grandest works, and most
wonderful and powerful processes, are silent to
our ears. The coral islands, infusorial depos-

THE CALIFORNIAN.

its, and Algse, with lime and silex, building up
great continents, and not so much as the sound
of a hammer is heard ! Even the immense sys-
tem of worlds, moving with inconceivable ve-
locities about and among each other, and not
so much as a vibration is felt by oin- senses.
The "music of the spheres" may be all about
us, but we cannot hear it.

Well, then, may we, each one, soliloquize in
the words of Bryant's "Forest Hymn :"

'My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on
In silence round me ; the perpetual work
Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on Thy works I read
The lesson of Thine own eternity.
Lo ! all grow old and die ; but see again,
How, in the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth —
In all its beautiful forms!"

C. L. ANDERSON.

OLD HUNKS'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

Pacific Street held high carnival ; in fact, all
Barbary Coast was in a blaze of glory. Christ-
mas Eve was being celebrated — save the mark !
— in the gin-mills. From every door, as one
passed along the street, burst out sounds of
music and hilarity. Down in the cellars men
were sitting at tables drinking to the accom-
paniment of orchestrions. Overhead — for, as
though it were not enough that saloons should
be placed side by side, they were piled one over
the other — overhead, boisterous raffles were go-
ing on for Christmas turkeys, and there was
more blaze of gaslight, and more men were
drinking in the thick, smoky atmosphere ; while
women, passing to and fro in gaudy costumes,
laughed in metallic and joyless tones at jokes
of as questionable character as themselves.
Sailors from all parts of the world, men and
women of every nation, oaths and jests in every
language ! Block after block — saloon after sa-
loon !

Up on the hill yonder the stately mother
smiled on her children as they gathered around
the tree in eager anticipation, and the father
looked over his broad expanse of waistcoat with
a smile of serene content. But how was it on
Barbary Coast?

In little knots on the sidewalks, lured with a
fatal curiosity nearer and nearer until angrily
ordered away by the bar -tenders, were chil-
dren, ten, twelve, fourteen years of age, with'
little pinched old faces ; children unduly wise,
who laughed and jested at drunkenness, to
whom the light and the hilarity had a resistless
fascination ; human shrubs whose dwarfed and
distorted lives were destined never to bear flow-
ers or fruitage. Some of them were smoking,
some were munching oranges that the fruit-
venders had rejected and thrown into the street;
but the most of them were peering with admira-
tion into the saloons in defiance of the occa-
sional efforts made to drive them away.

Some of the "respectable" saloons had wood-
en screens inside in front of the doors to shut
off the view from the street. At these places
the music was louder, the laughter more con-
tinuous, the numbers greater, the smoke thick-
er, the confusion and glare more bewildering.
Larger groups of children were here gathered
on the sidewalk, and occasionally one more dar-
ing than the rest would creep around the corner
of the screen and gaze upon the feverish and
noisy scene with admiration. From little back
rooms came the clink of coin, and, child as he
was, the boy at the screen knew what it meant.
Indeed, as he stood there, with a cigar stump
in his little mouth, which he occasionally re-
moved to pay his respects with unerring precis-
ion to the nearest spittoon, he was different
from those about him only in size. Give him
time, and the difference will disappear.

On this particular Christmas evening there
was suddenly a shout among the urchins on the
outside. The boy by the screen was on the
sidewalk in an instant.

"What's up?"

"There comes Old Hunks."

Slowly up the street, muttering to himself,
came an old, stoop-shouldered man, who
glanced apprehensively at the group of boys.
His appearance was shabby in the extreme.
His hair was unkempt, his eyebrows were shag-
gy, his beard was tangled and uncombed, and
his small, nervous gray eyes shone like balls
of fire. To a stranger the old man might have
appeared to be in the depths of destitution.
But the residents of this neighborhood knew
better. Many of them paid rent to him, for he
owned many of the buildings that were illumin-
ed to-night with such a fateful glare. His ten-
ants hated him. They said he was a miser,
that he was hard-hearted, that he granted no
delays, that he had no soul. What use could a
miser have for a soul ?

OLD HUNKS'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

The boys heard this talk at home.

"Hello, Hunksy," said one, with a box slung
over his shoulder. "Have a shine? I'll take
yer note for it."

No one knew the old man's name. Proba-
bly it appeared somewhere on musty old title-
deeds. He signed his rent receipts, always,
"O. H. ;" and when some wag— for they have
a grim humor on Barbary Coast — suggested
that the letters stood for "Old Hunks," the
name stuck to him.

"What yer goin' to give me for Chris'mus?"
queried a cross-eyed gamin with a freckled face.

"Lemme a bit, will yer, Hunksy?" asked an-
other. ''Til pay yer out er my divvydends."

" He wouldn't len' a feller a stable to be born
in, he wouldn't," replied a third, "not without
yer spouted yer watch with him."

The old man grabbed the last speaker, and
administered a couple of sound cuffs.

"Who yer hittin'?" angrily demanded the
urchin, although there seemed little room for
doubt on that question.

But before he could get an answer, the miser
had turned into a side-street, and the boys went
back to the saloon door, not without some jeers
at their crestfallen companion.

Old Hunks evidently was out of humor. Some
of his tenants had not paid him to-day. Sev-
eral were overdue a considerable time. There
was Digby, for instance, who lived with his wife
and four children in the two back rooms over
the last saloon. Digby was more than a week
behind, and it was Digby's boy whom he had
cuffed. The father was in the saloon, drink-
ing, as the old man probably knew. Four or
five others were behind from one to two weeks,
something Old Hunks had never permitted be-
fore. They pleaded harcl times. They said
they couldn't get work. What had he to do
with hard times? It wasn't his fault if they
couldn't get work. They didn't want to work.
They wouldn't work if you'd give them a chance.
Work, indeed — nonsense.

But the worst case was that of the sick woman
with the two little children, who lived in the ten-
ement house on this side-street.

"Three months now," growled Old Hunks to
himself as he shuffled along the narrow side-
walk, from which the tired-looking, hard-faced
women withdrew into their doors with their
children to let him pass.

"Three months now, and not a cent. That's
what I get for showing a little kindness to these
people, and letting the rent run."

He turned in at the door of the tenement
house, and climbed slowly up the narrow stair-
case. The air was musty, and rank with the
smell of the afternoon's cooking, which had

mingled from a dozen different apartments.
There was no light, save that one of the rooms
on the first floor boasted a stained transom,
thick with venerable dust, through which a few
rays struggled from a candle inside. It was
sufficient to enable him to feel his way up the
creaky stairs.

As he finished the third flight, and stopped
to catch his breath, he heard a woman's sobs,
interrupted by those of two children.

"They heard me coming," muttered Old
Hunks to himself, "and they're getting a good
ready."

The old man knocked at the door. There
was no response. He waited a moment, then
knocked a second time. Still the sound of sobs
within, but no answer.

Putting his hand upon the knob, he opened
the door and went in. The room was cold and
bare. The wind came in at a broken pane in
spite of the effort some one had made to check
it with a piece of newspaper. There was one
chair, with the rounds missing, one small ta-
ble, and a bed. Upon the latter, in the corner
of the room, lay a woman, sobbing, and evi-
dently very sick. By her side were two small
children, a boy about five years of age, and a
girl about three. The children also were cry-
ing. They were so occupied that they did not
see the new comer.

Old Hunks did not look at the group, but
fixed his face in a hard, set way, toward the va-
cant wall.

"I have come for my money," he said ston-
ily, advancing a step or two.

His voice, and the sound of his feet upon the
bare floor, attracted the attention of the sick
woman. Turning with evident difficulty and
pain, she looked in his direction, drawing one
arm in instinctive fear about her children. Old
Hunks saw the movement, although he avoided
her face.

"I have come for my money," he repeated.
"I have been put off long enough."

The woman put her hand to her head, as if
trying to realize what was going on. She ut-
tered a moan of pain, which she seemed too
weak to stifle. At last she broke down com-
pletely, and commenced to sob.

"My children ! Oh, my poor children !"

Old Hunks shifted position uneasily, but still
held doggedly to his declaration, in a sterner
manner.

"I have come for my money. What do you
expect to do ? I can't keep you along forever."

The woman straightened up in her bed. A
sudden power seemed to have seized her. She
rose with desperate resolution, and, walking
unsteadily across the floor, caught the miser

THE CALIFORNIAN.

by the sleeve. The pallor of death was in her
face. The clutch of death was in her fingers.
Her white garments hung about her like a
shroud, and her luminous eyes burned with an
unearthly light.

"For the love of God, sir, do not let my chil-
dren starve. If you hope for mercy — oh, my
poor children ! — do not — "

The exertion was too much. She staggered,
and fell to the floor. The old man, with some
effort, lifted her upon the bed. He chafed her
hands nervously for a few moments. He spoke
to her, but she did not answer. At last he saw
that she lay very still, that the nostrils did not
appear to move. Her eyes had a glassy look,
and the children, who had huddled together
frightened, began to cry. And well they might,
for outside was the merciless world, and here,
in this silent room, was merciless Death.

The little boy dropped something from his
hand. It fell at the feet of the miser, who pick-
ed it up and looked at it, then took it to the
light, and held it there some time. It was a
small locket, and contained the picture of a
young girl apparently about eighteen years of
age. The locket was gold. It had a small
chain, long enough to go about the neck, also
gold. He examined both chain and locket
closely, then put them upon the table. He
picked up his hat, and moved toward the door.
He hesitated at the threshold, came back, put
the locket and chain in his pocket, and went
out, closing the door behind him.

Who can tell his thoughts as he shuffled, mut-
tering to himself, down the rickety stairs and
into the narrow street? Was it not enough to
lose his money? What right had a woman to
die and leave her children for others to feed?
It was not to be tolerated. Other women would
be doing the same thing. People must pay
their honest debts, and support their children.
Little they would care for Old Hunks if he were
to die ! What if he did have a little money —
there wasn't so much after all — but what of it?
Didn't he get it honestly? Didn't he pay his
debts — that was the question — did he ever die
and leave both debts and children behind?

Whatever Old Hunks's thoughts may have
been, he went slowly down the stairs and out
into the night. And the helpless children were
left alone with their dead — so helpless that
they thought it was sleep, so innocent that they
fondled her dead face and wondered why she
answered not, and so tired with their sobbing
that they finally crept up beside her and went
to sleep upon her bosom.

Two hours passed, and still they slept. The
clock on St. Mary's tolled the hour of mid-
night. The narrow street grew quiet, but

around the corner Barbary Coast was still
ablaze, though the boys were no longer seen on
the sidewalks. Men were drinking deeply and
sullenly now. Now and then a drunken man
staggered by on his way home. Now and then
a noise from some saloon told of a brawl over
the dice or cards. Farther up the street a man
had been killed in a quarrel over a disputed
game. On the hills above the lights were dy-
ing out of the windows. In a few homes they
still shone on happy faces, and on fair forms
that moved in the graceful dance. It was only
a few blocks from this — to this. It is only a
step from wealth to poverty, from virtue to
crime, from innocence to shame.

The echoes of the cathedral clock had scarce-
ly died upon the midnight air when a carriage
drew up in front of the tenement house. Two
ladies and a gentleman alighted, and the three
passed up the narrow stairs. At the third
flight they stopped, and, after a moment's hesi-
tation, opened the door facing the staircase.
The children were still sleeping.

"Poor things," said one of the ladies, "what
would have become of them !"

Carefully lifting them one by one, still sleep-
ing, the gentleman carried them down stairs
and handed them tenderly to some person in
the carriage. He then returned up stairs, and
the carriage drove rapidly away.

Pacific Street awoke sluggishly the next day.
On the side-street few were stirring early in the
morning. The fumes of Chrismas Eve still pol-
luted the pure morning air of Christmas Day.
Mrs. Dennis Regan, who had rooms on the
third floor of the tenement house, having heard
unusual noises in the next apartment during the
night, peered out of her room about eight o'clock.
The door opposite was open, and she saw three
persons, two ladies and a gentlemen, watching
there. "The sick woman's dead," she said to
herself, "and her rich friends have come to
watch wid her. It wouldn't have hurt 'em to
have looked afther her a bit when she needed
it more than she does now, poor sowl."

The news of the death, and the interest taken
by the ''rich friends," soon flew through the
street, which straightway began to be mollified
in its usual bitter feelings toward well to do
people. But at ten o'clock an event occurred
which roused the popular indignation to the
highest pitch. The undertaker arrived, ac-
companied by a man muffled in a great coat,
under whose directions the body was soon
taken away. But Mrs. Dennis Regan, happen-
ing to come up the narrow stairs as the muffled
man, who seemed desirous of avoiding observa-
tion, was going down, recognized him as the
much detested miser, "Old Hunks."

OLD HUNKS'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

The theory of the "rich friends" was imme-
diately abandoned by the street.

"The old skinflint, bad cess to him," abjured
Mrs. Dennis Regan, "has garnisheed the dead
woman for the rint."

"The Lord save them pore childers!" shud-
dered her neighbor, as she listened with breath-
less interest to the story of the miser's heartless
action.

"To think of me takin' that deperty sheriff
fer a gintleman, and them two brazen-faced
things fer ladies," exclaimed Mrs. Regan.

That Christmas afternoon, Old Hunks climb-
ed up to his little room on the fourth floor of
one of his own buildings — a room for which
no one would pay rent, and which he had ac-
cordingly occupied for many years. Do you
know what manner of place a miser's home is?
It is'nt a very inviting spot, to be sure. It has
a barren and desolate look, like the life of the
miser himself. But some how or other, the old
man had become attached to this room through
all the years that he had lived there. They
were weary years as he looked back on them ;
years rich in gold, but oh, how poor in human
sympathy and companionship ! There was lit-
tle pleasure that he could remember in them.
He had given himself wholly over to money-
getting, and his soul had shrunk, and shrunk,
until the room had not appeared small and
mean to him. That is the worst of a sordid
passion ; we lose our finer sense of the perspec-
tive and relation of things. On this afternoon,
somehow, the room seemed cramped and op-
pressive. He sat down by the table, and lean-
ed his head upon his hand. He was buried in
deep thought. The hard expression was relaxed,
and there were fine lines in his face. Observed
closely, he did not appear so old as his white
hair would indicate. He was evidently much
distressed, and a nature capable of entire devo-
tion to one object, even though a sordid one, is
capable, also, of intense feeling. At last an ex-
pression of pain escaped him :

"O my God! And I never suspected it."
Rising after a while, and, going to an old
trunk in the corner, he unlocked it and took
out a strong tin box, which he brought back to
the table and placed thereon. Producing a
small key from his pocket he opened it. On
the top were some deeds and mortgages. Re-
moving these, he came to a small parcel, care-
fully tied in a piece of oil-silk. He undid this
parcel slowly, and as though every movement
was painful to him. It contained two old let-
ters, and a small gold locket with a chain. He
took from his pockets the trinket which he had
taken from the little boy. In outward appear-
ance the lockets and chains were exactly similar.

Vol. III.— 6.

The one he had taken from the box con-
tained the picture of a young, and, withal, hand-
some man, and bore the inscription :

"O. H. TO A. M."

The one he took from his pocket contained the
face of a young girl, and in similar lettering was
inscribed :

"A. M. TO O. H."

The two letters in the box were yellow and
discolored with age.

"Twenty years !" he said, bitterly, to himself.
" Twenty years ! And we both threw our lives
away for a momentary spite — she to become
the wife of one she did not love, and I to be-
come the miserable thing that I am. And I
hunted her to the death ! O my God ! If I
had only suspected it !"

He paced the floor in agitation. The past
rose before him like a hideous specter, grinning
in horrible triumph. Even the sweet face in the
locket was turned to him sadly, with a reproach-
ful look. A strong nature, capable of utter self-
abnegation, of the demolition of every ideal and
idol, of the pursuit of a repulsive object not as
a matter of choice but of will, is susceptible,
upon occasion, of the most bitter and intense
remorse. There was no thought in his mind
of the contrast between the promise of his
youth and the barren and dreary fulfillment of
his manhood — only the haunting suggestion of
the wrong to another, of the contrast between
the sweet face which looked up to him from
yonder table and the agonized face which had
implored him with dying eyes the night before.

"Heaven is my witness that I never suspected
it. I cannot "

It was too much. His head burned, and he
felt a heavy, oppressive pain at his heart which
startled him. He went to the table, took a
sheet of paper, and commenced to write. After
a few lines he tore it up and selected another
sheet. Upon this he wrote a few short sen-
tences, then signed his name and affixed the
date. Weak and exhausted, he went to the
bed and lay his head upon the pillows. The
afternoon sunlight came in at the little window
and shone upon his tired face. The rays seem-
ed warmer and more rosy than usual. Look-
ing out through the panes, the west was aflame
with a glory of color. And through this radi-
ance of the heavens the sun was sinking slowly
into the waters of the limitless sea;

Early the next morning, Digby, still out of
work, and still in arrears for his rent, mounted
the stairs leading to the miser's room, to beg
for a further delay. Digby considered himself

THE CALIFORNIAN.

wronged, in some indefinite way, by every one
who had wealth, and by his landlord in particu-
lar. It had so happened that, on a certain day
of the week before, Digby had been possessed
of the money to pay his rent. But the landlord,
not knowing this fact, failed to call upon him,
having done so without success several pre-
vious days in succession. As a consequence,
the money went into the coffers of the saloon
situated immediately under the Digby resi-
dence, and that worthy, by some irrelevancy of
logic, considered Old Hunks principally to
blame for this result. Hence it was, as he
climbed the stairs, that he looked upon his er-
rand as largely in the nature of a humiliation ;
and it was a little vindictively, perhaps, that he
knocked with such unnecessary distinctness.
Hearing no answer, with the usual directness
of his class, he applied his hand to the knob,
and opened the door.

He stood a moment irresolute. There is one
presence which unnerves the strongest. Digby
was not a bad man at heart. He took his hat
from his head instinctively, and said, below his
breath :

"God forgive me for the hard things I've said
about him."

A doctor was soon brought, but human skill
is powerless in the presence of the awful mys-
tery of death. He pronounced it heart disease.
He never knew with what unconscious truth he
spoke.

Upon the table they found a holographic will,
penned, signed, and dated in the well known
characters. It lay, still open, where it had
been written. They took it up, curious to read
the will of a miser. After the appointment of
an executor, it contained these words :

"I forgive and release all persons in my debt the
amounts to which they are severally indebted. To my
said executor, I give one-half of all my property, real
and personal, in trust, to be invested by him, and the
income to be applied to the relief of worthy people in
distress in the city of San Francisco. All the residue
and remainder of my property I give, share and share
alike, to the two children of my deceased friend Alice
Benton, formerly Alice Marshall. And, with trust in
His eternal goodness, I commit my soul unto Him who
knoweth and forgiveth."

CHAS. H. PHELPS.

NOTE BOOK.

THE CIVIL SERVICE REFORM ASSOCIATION is the
name of an organization having its headquarters in New
York City, and having in view the accomplishment of
the following objects, as declared in the second clause
of its constitution :

"The object of the Association shall be to establish a
system of appointment, promotion, and removal in the
Civil Service founded upon the principle that public
office is a public trust, admission to which should de-
pend upon proved fitness. To this end the Association
will demand that appointments to subordinate executive
offices, with such exceptions not inconsistent with the
principle already mentioned, as may be expedient, shall
be made from persons whose fitness has been ascertained
by competitive examinations open to all applicants prop-
erly qualified ; and that removals shall be made for legit-
imate causes only, such as dishonesty, negligence, or in-
efficiency, but not for political opinion or for refusal to
render party service ; and the Association will advocate
all other appropriate measures for securing intelli-
gence, integrity, good order, and due discipline in the
Civil Service."

Mr. George William Curtis is President of the Associa-
tion, and the high character of those who are engaged
in promoting it is a sufficient guaranty of its purpose
and aims. It is probable that this organization may be
productive of great good if its influence be not dissi-
pated in the attempt to bring about inconsequential ' ' re-
forms" with which the people are not in sympathy. In
other words, the progress of civil service reform so far
has been retarded by the attempted enforcement of irri-
tating, petty regulations as to the individual conduct of

office holders, regulations which in some instances went
so far as to abridge the freedom of one in office to par-
ticipate with his fellow-citizens in the privileges of Amer-
ican citizenship. It is safe to say that the people have
never been and will not be in sympathy with any such
efforts. Now, the essential point in reforming the civil
service is to introduce a tenure of office during life or
good behavior. So long as the petty offices shall be be-
stowed in payment for party zeal, so long will those who
desire to possess or retain those offices be mere retain-
ers of the party "leaders," so long will the "leaders"
use their power to perpetuate their rule, and so long will
the reform be delayed. On the other hand, let the ten-
ure for life or good behavior be introduced, there will be
every incentive for the honest performance of duty, and
none whatever for its neglect. Public officials will look
forward to a long and honorable life in the Government
employ, and these positions will grow in respectability
and general esteem. There is no good reason why a
change of administration should affect the position of
any officer of the Government, except, possibly, the
Cabinet. But how is this to be brought about. It is
not to be expected that Senators and Representatives in
Congress will lend their aid to any scheme which shall
deprive them of the patronage by which they perpetuate
their power. In fact, experience has proved that they
will stand like a solid phalanx in the way of any such
measure. And if one Congress could be persuaded into
the passage of an adequate law, the same would be sub-
ject to the amendment, repeal, or practical nullification
of every succeeding Congress. It is clear that any pro-

SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY.

vision of this kind, in order to be permanent, must
be placed above the reach of those who might be inter-
ested to have it abrogated or amended. There is but one
such place, and that is in the Constitution of the United
States. In the case of our federal judges it was thought
to be important that they should hold office during good
behavior, and it was accordingly so provided in the Con-
stitution. As a result, they are, in general, men of in-
telligence and honesty, keeping aloof from partisanship
and performing their duties efficiently. From the be-
ginning of the Government the judiciary has been its
most honorable and learned department. Now, if it be
desirable that all our offices be as inviolable as these, it
is also desirable that the enactment be equally beyond
the reach of those who would render it nugatory. It is
better, perhaps, not to make the experiment than to fail
in it. If the Civil Service Reform Association will de-
vote its efforts to procuring a constitutional amend-
ment providing that all appointive executive officers,
save members of the President's Cabinet, shall hold
office for life or during good behavior, except when re-
tired for old age upon suitable pensions, it will accom-
plish more in the direction of reforming the public
service than can be brought about in any other manner.
It is well enough to urge competitive examinations, but
the manner of appointment is of infinitely less impor-
tance than the tenure of office after appointment.

THE INFLUENCE OF SUCH A REFORM upon the mo-
tives of the voters will not be inconsiderable. The
elective franchise will be to an extent lifted out of the
quagmire of politics on to the higher and better ground
of statesmanship. The objective point will be essen-
tially different. An election will no longer be a mere
scramble for offices. It will be a struggle to secure the
legislative rather than the executive department of gov-
ernment— to shape the national policy, to enact the
laws, and to determine in a given way grave questions
of statecraft, rather than merely to secure the spoils.
In England, when a change of administration takes
place, a score or so of gentlemen, whose positions have

directly to do with the national policy, go out of office,
and are replaced by as many of their opponents. The
great body of office-holders are undisturbed. The ques-
tion of spoils does not come even remotely into the con-
test. The question of individual gain does not and can-
not enter the mind of the average voter. It is purely a
matter of public, and not at all of personal, moment.
The end in view is to influence legislation or to effect in
some manner the public policy. It is a matter of utter
inconsequence who does the clerical work, who fills the
petty places. A broader, higher, and better motive pre-
vails. In this country the struggle is to secure the exec-
utive department. The party is deemed to have won
who has this, even if its adversary remain in possession
of the law-making power. Every voter is a possible
office-holder, and it is to be feared that too many of
them have this fact in mind at the polls. When the
tenure of office is for life or during good behavior, this
motive will cease to exist, and voters will consider mere-
ly the public good.

THE INDIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY OF WRITERS for

the opinions which they express in the articles published
over their signatures in THE CALIFORNIAN has been edi-
torially proclaimed upon several different occasions. But
as a number of persons not otherwise open to the charge
of feculence of intellect seem unable to comprehend this
very general rule, we take occasion to reannounce it.
We desire, and expect to publish, vigorous and able
articles from leading men on both sides of live questions.
We do not expect to prune, cut down, or distort the
same, nor to strike out ideas with which we do not
agree. If the magazine were to be held responsible for
opinions expressed in articles it would be necessary to
do this. Every article would be deprived of its individ-
uality, and the only opinion would be that of the editor.
We prefer to make the magazine the exponent of the
best thought of the contributors, and we shall not ask
them to write or think by measure according to our dic-
tation. As a corollary, it is not THE CALIFORNIAN,
but the contributor, who is responsible for the senti-
ments which appear over his signature.

SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY.

DUST-SHOWERS.

The wide-spread area over which a single occurrence
of that class of phenomena known as "dust-showers"
frequently extends has suggested the idea that they
may oftentimes have a cosmic origin. Dust-showers, it
is true, often occur from local causes, such as volcanic
eruptions, by which ashes are distributed over areas of
many hundred miles in extent, or from dust raised by
the passage of wind-storms over large tracts of desert,
and deposited at distant points, as often occurs in the
southern part of California. But the following, collat-
ed from the official organ of the United States Civil
Service for March, 1880, would seem to imply a cosmic
origin : A most remarkable dust-shower made its ap-
pearance in British Columbia on the afternoon of March
24th, and, moving southward, passed over Idaho on the

morning of the 2$th ; still continuing its easterly course,
it was central in Nebraska on the afternoon of the 26th.
At midnight of the same day it was central in Iowa.
On the afternoon of the 2jth it was felt in Illinois, and
at midnight in Ohio. Very remarkable dust-storms pre-
vailed at the same time in Missouri, Kansas, and New
Mexico. During the continuance of this fall of dust the
barometer at the different localities mentioned varied
from 0.04 to 0.75 below the normal point. It is well
known that snow collected on mountain-tops and with-
in the Arctic Circle, far beyond the influence of factories
and smoke, or the effects of wind passing over the bare
earth, confirm the supposition that minute particles of
dust float in space, and, in time, come in contact
with our atmosphere, when they fall to the earth. These
particles of dust are sometimes found to consist largely
of iron, and by many scientists are thought to bear

THE CALIFORN1AN.

some relation to auroral phenomena. Gronemann, of
Gottingen, has put forth the theory that streams of these
particles revolve around the sun, and that when the
earth passes through such streams the iron particles are
attracted to the poles, from whence they shoot forth in
long filaments through the upper atmosphere with such
velocity that they often become ignited, and they pro-
duce the well known luminous appearance characteriz-
ing auroral phenomena. Professor Nordenskjold, who
recently examined snow at points far north of Spitz-
bergen, reports that he found in it exceedingly minute
particles of metallic iron, cobalt, and phosphorus. It
would seem exceedingly probable that such particles
could have no other than a cosmic origin.

HOT ICE.

The idea of ' ' hot ice " would seem to be somewhat par-
adoxical. Yet it may be realized, and ice, or frozen water,
may be kept in a vessel — glass, if you please — so that it
may both be seen and handled, and yet be so hot that
it will burn the hand that holds it. The principle under
which it is possible that this curious experiment may be
shown is as follows : In order to convert a solid into a
liquid, the pressure must be above a certain point, else
no amount of heat will melt the substance. Hence, if
we can keep a cake of ice at a certain point of pressure,
no heat can liquify it ; the degree of heat which it will
withstand depending upon the degree of pressure which
is maintained. This interesting experiment has recently
been performed by Mr. Thomas Carnelly, during his
experimental investigations in regard to the boiling point
of water, and other substances, under pressure.

ENGLISH DISLIKE OF INNOVATION.

One great cause of the decrease in English exports is
the conservatism among English manufacturers and
their extreme dislike of innovations. They are inclined
to stick to old processes and old styles, refusing to
study the tastes of their customers. They seek to im-
pose their own notions and ideas upon the world.
Hence, foreign buyers seek in America, in Germany,
and in France, goods better suited to their taste and
needs. French manufacturers are particularly ready
and quick to suit their work to the tastes of their cus-
tomers. They are especially apt in devising new styles
and patterns, such as shall most readily meet the vary-
ing tastes of buyers. They realize that variety is pleas-
ing and fashion capricious, and never hesitate to change
a machine, or a pattern, when the old one fails to suit;
while the Englishman looks well at the cost, and pre-
fers to continue "in the good old way," with the hope
that some day the fashion may come round again. An-
other example of the conservatism of the English manu-
facturer is manifested in his preference for hand work
over machine work. He refuses to believe that a ma-
chine can be made to do more perfect work than the
hand. Hence, in the manufacture of watches, of sew-
ing-machines, and of many classes of fire-arms, he ut-
terly fails to compete with more progressive mechanics
on this side of the Atlantic. The more observing and
thoughtful of Englishmen themselves are beginning to
realize these facts, and have already raised the note of
alarm. A British correspondent, who styles himself "A
Skilled Workman," who recently visited some of our

manufacturing establishments, writes as follows to the
Sheffield Telegraph: "The use of files, rasps, and floats
are superseded by other tools [machine tools] astonish-
ing in their adaptability for perfect and rapid produc-
tion. No written description could convey an idea of

their great ability and method The skill of the

engineer has taken the place of the skilled artisans ; for
mere boys are tending these operations, and yet quality

is not ignored The readiness of the employers to

adopt any practical suggestion from any one of their
hands is a notable feature in most American factories,
whereas the cold shoulder is generally given such in
England. We weakly waddle in the wake of America
in the matter of inventions until a necessity is proved,
when an earnest effort is made and progress is attained.
Old-fashioned methods of manufacture will have to be
abandoned for newer and better ones, if ' Mene, mene,
tekel, upharsin,' is not to be written across British com-
merce in the future. The individual skill and handi-
craft of the best Sheffield workmen I have not seen sur-
passed in the United States, but they are inadequate for
all the requirements of the present age."

A DELICATE INSTRUMENT.

Professer S. P. Langley, of the Alleghany Observa-
tory, has invented an instrument for measuring the in-
tensity of radiant heat, which he claims is thirty times
more sensitive than the ordinary thermopile — the most
delicate instrument yet invented for such use. More-
over, the thermopile is very slow in its action, while the
Professor's new instrument, which he calls the thermal
balance, takes up the heat and parts with it, so that it
may be registered, in a single second. Its action is al-
most as prompt as the human eye. Its accuracy is so
perfect that it will record within one per cent, of the
amount to be measured. Its sensitiveness is so great
that it will register, accurately, an amount of heat which
will not exceed one fifty-thousandth part of a degree of
Fahrenheit. When mounted in a reflecting telescope,
it will record the heat given off by a man, or even any
small animal in a distant field. The Professor has been
applying it to measure the heat of the moon, from
which some interesting and reliable data may soon be
expected. It is the most delicate and truly scientific
instrument for measuring the energy of radiant heat
which has ever been devised.

THE DEAD-POINT IN MIND TENSION.

It is a common subject of marvel that criminals, in
the presence of immediate execution, are so often per-
fectly self-possessed, and exhibit such singular compos-
ure. They will sleep through the night before execution,
and rise as for an ordinary day's duties. Those who
form exceptions to this rule, who are more or less pros-
trated by the agonizing prospects of violent death, no
doubt suffer much more than those who control their
feelings. The former usually retain every faculty and
sense, and seek for information, and adopt measures to
minimize their sufferings at the critical moment. As a
general thing, their pulse is even less disturbed than is
that of the officials who are compelled to carry out the
dread penalty of the law. Why is this? The Lancet
answers as follows : ' ' The rnind has reached what may
be designated a 'dead-point' in its tension. The ex-
citement is over, the agony of anticipation, the trem-

ART AND ARTISTS.

bling doubt between hope and fear of escape, has ex-
hausted the irritability of the mind, and there is, as it
were, a pause, an interval of passive endurance between
the end of the struggle for life, and the bitterness of re-
morse, and agony of disappointment, which may begin
at death. In this interval, the mind is released from
the tension of its effort for self-preservation, and almost
rebounds with the sense of relief that comes with cer-
tainty, even though the assurance be that of impending

death The mental state of a criminal, during

the hours previous to execution, presents features of in-
tense interest to the psychologist, and, rightly compre-
hended, it is to be feared they would throw new light
on the supposed preparation these unfortunate persons
evince for a fate which, being inevitable, they, at the
final moment, are able to meet with a composure in
which hypocrisy or self-deception finds the amplest
scope."

ART AND ARTISTS.

WILLIAM KEITH.

There are few among the landscape painters of the
country whose work is more full, both of fulfillment and
promise, than the artist whose name stands at the head
of this paragraph. Mr. Keith has recently returned
from New England, and has, in his San Francisco
studio, eighty-seven sketches in oil of scenes in Maine
and New Hampshire. To say that these are admirable
is to do them scant justice. They range through all the
different moods of Nature. They paint her in all her
costumes, from the gaudy glory of her autumnal dress
to her most sober and ashen vestment. They display
more versatility than one would have imagined possi-
ble. To one familiar with New England landscape,
they seem, in their way, perfect. A lady not inaptly
remarked that they made her homesick. Detailed crit-
icism is, of course, from the number of these sketches,
impossible. The characteristic which they have in com-
mon is a remarkable truthfulness of impression, a bold
grasp of the subject as a whole. They are vivid, real-
istic, true to nature as well as to art. In fact, one in-
sensibly renders them the highest tribute that can be
paid ; he forgets the art, he sees only the scene. The
impression one gets is general, not detailed ; it is that
which is received in gazing upon Nature for inspiration,
not in examining her for information. Artists too often
make the mistake of finishing every rock, tree, and bank
as it appears upon a close study. As a result, the pict-
ure has no perspective ; neither foreground nor back-
ground. It is bewildering. The one impression sought
is lost in a maze of impressions. The picture is merely
a botanical catalogue in oil. In Mr. Keith's sketches,
everything is properly subordinated to and harmonized
with the whole, as in nature itself. It presents the
scene as the poet sees it, as the artist beholds it, not as
the painstaking scientist analyzes it. Mr. Keith's ad-
mirers will claim that these sketches are equal, if not su-
perior, to anything which has been produced in the
same line. And those who enjoy the rare privilege of
seeing them will not be inclined to dispute this claim.

THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE OF
AMERICA.

This society, founded in Boston a year and a half ago,
has now had its experts for some months in the field,
and is likely to make very important contributions to
our knowledge of the life of prehistoric man in America.

The remains of the works of the former inhabitants of
this continent are the principal source to which we must
look for a knowledge of the condition of man in Amer-
ica previous to its discovery four hundred years ago.
These remains have never yet been made the object of a
comprehensive survey and a scientific classification, but
their varied character, and the wide field over which
they extend, make them a most attractive object of ex-
ploration. From the south-western corner of Colorado,
across New Mexico, Arizona, and Mexico, to Yucatan
and Central America, the unexplained structures of a
vanished race impel us to inquire what were the objects
of their builders, and how far their methods of con-
struction indicate an intellectual purpose, mechanical
skill, the possession of improved tools, or any other ad-
vancement toward civilization. Within the limits of the
United States the principal structures awaiting interpre-
tation are : ( i ) the extraordinary cave-dwellings, found
principally along the tributaries of the San Juan, in Col-
orado, and built in the faces of cliffs hundreds of feet
above the level of the valleys ; (2) the towers and the an-
cient pueblos, no longer inhabited, built in terrace form,
and comprising, in some instances, as many as five hun-
dred apartments in one structure; (3) the modern pue-
blos, like the ancient in plan, and, like them, found
principally in New Mexico and Arizona, and inhabited
by existing Indian tribes. Such are the pueblos which
extend along the Rio Grande del Norte, and are found
at Zuni and Moqui, points hitherto remote from contact
with white men. To explore each of these groups of
structures will be the first object of the Archaeological
Institute, which has wisely determined to begin investi-
gations by a precise study of the inhabited pueblos.
This will enable the Institute to put on record a scien-
tific account of the mode of life, the industries, the cus-
toms, the religion, the folk-lore, the traditions of tribes
which must soon perish before the advance of our own
race. The information thus acquired will doubtless fur-
nish the key to interpreting the constructive purposes of
the ancient pueblos, so closely allied to those of the
present ; and the theory advanced as to the connection
between the plan of the buildings and a supposed com-
munal mode of life will probably be definitely settled.
It may not be too much to expect that the study of ex-
isting pueblo life will also supply many hints as to the
objects for which the cliff-dwellings may have been
erected. The Institute will, at any rate, secure trust-
worthy ground-plans and measurements of those and of
all other structures ; and, in view of the demolition of
many structures for building purposes which is certain

THE CALIFORNIAN.

to attend the approaching settlement of the country,
this work has not been begun a moment too soon. It
is also of importance that the work of collecting the leg-
ends and superstitions of the numerous small tribes of
Indians scattered over Arizona should proceed as rap-
idly as possible. It has been a matter of frequent ob-
servation by travelers who have visited Arizona at inter-
vals during the past ten years that a frightful mortality
invariably manifests itself in tribes which come in con-
tact with the vagrant mining population of the place.
This fact should stimulate the Institute to push its work
forward as rapidly as possible. The ability to do so
will no doubt depend upon the subscriptions received.

The Institute appeals to the whole country. It is a
thoroughly American enterprise. At the same time the
field of its labors belongs especially to the Pacific Coast,
and we do not doubt that the value of the Institute's re-
searches as a basis for future history will be appreciated
here, and meet with substantial encouragement. In the
list of life-members, which appears in the first annual
report, Mr. D. O. Mills has the honor of representing
California. It is to be hoped that in the next report
the names of many other Californians will stand by his.
The conditions of membership may be learned by ad-
dressing the Secretary, Mr. Edward H. Greenleaf, Mu-
seum of Fine Arts, Boston.

DRAMA AND STAGE.

CONTRARY TO GENERAL EXPECTATION, Daniel Ro-
chat is a success in New York. Originally produced at
the Theatre Fran9ais, under the author's immediate
supervision, to an audience composed of the tlite of
Paris, and interpreted by the best actors in all Europe,
it failed to achieve even the modest success of being
understood. This is something of a paradox, and the
explanation interesting — for it is not often that the ver-
dict of Paris is reversed in New York. The simple fact
is, Daniel Rochat is an English play in a French dress,
and its philosophy proved quite too subtile for the
nctivctd of the French mind. In the first place, the
character of "Lea Henderson" could not be intelligi-
ble to them from any stand-point. That a woman
could be religious without being bigoted, and worship
liberty without denying God, has never entered into
their ideas. Yet there is a little town in Massachusetts,
Boston by name, which we venture to say would in-
dorse " Lea" in toto. It is curious, in this connection,
that the author of I'Oncle Sam should have displayed
to the eyes of Europe so favorable a specimen of Amer-
ican womanhood. He would apologize, perhaps, by
pointing out the fact that she is half English. Again,
giving to "Lea" the power of analysis was positively
startling to them, and the remark which so fascinated
" Rochat" — " La liberte" en France est un peu comme
le ge"nie de la Bastille, le pied toujours en 1'air pour
s'envoler " — could never have come from the mouth of
a French girl. As she is the central figure, and "Ro-
chat," dramatically speaking, but a foil to her, this, of
itself, would explain its success where she was a living
thing, its failure where she was a shadowy unreality.
Moreover, making "Rochat" more bigoted that big-
ot was another shock to the conventionalism which is so
characteristic of the French mind ; and yet the propo-
sition that proselytism and intolerance are common to
human nature, and not the accidents of creeds, would
seem to be almost an axiom. Sardou evidently appre-
hended some difficulty here, since in the long scene be-
tween the elder " Fargis" and " Rochat" he is careful
to contrast the average skeptical temperament with the
rarer enlightened one. "Rochat," completely taken
aback by the conservative skepticism of his friend, ex-
claims :

DANIEL. — Enfin tu n'es pas un clerical ! Tu es un philo-
sophe !

FARGIS. — Religieux !

DANIEL. — De quelle religion ?
FARGIS. — De toutes.
DANIEL. — Et moi d'aucune.

It may be urged that all this belongs rather to a the-
sis than to a play. But there is a practical, a dramatic
— nay, a poetic — side to the most negative of human
ideas ; and if Sardou has failed to state his premises
with simplicity, he has not overlooked any element of
human interest in the working out of his conclusion. It
is just the element of human interest in "Daniel Ro-
chat " and in " Lea " which is precious, for he would be
a poor playwright indeed who should found a work ap-
pealing almost exclusively to the feelings and the heart
upon a negation. They are in the position of two trav-
elers meeting at cross-roads, but to take widely divergent
paths. She, hating tyranny of every kind, thinks to
find in "Rochat" a liberality equal to her own, but
awakes to discover a skepticism more narrow than the
bigotry from which she has fled. For if " Lea " is typi-
cal of anything, it is of a thirst for liberty, but not the
liberty which rejects the good with the bad. She pros-
ecutes a crusade against all tyranny in the name of God;
he, a crusade against all religion in the name of liberty.
The situation of making a play turn on the mere formal-
ities of marriage is not absolutely new to the stage, but
is nevertheless one of great power and purpose; that of
being married and not married is certainly dramatic
enough for any taste, and this is the gist of Daniel Ro-
chat, all else being mere details grouped around the
central point. That two persons should contract with
enthusiasm, marry in haste, one of the parties even ig-
norant that she was married at all ; that out of discus-
sion of mere formalities should grow a knowledge of
one another ; that a terrible duel should arise ; that love
should expire in the conflict, and divorce be a welcome
solution — surely all this is dramatic enough ; perhaps
too much so.

THOSE WHO THINK THAT GENIUS HAS DEPARTED
from the stage should see Sheridan. If greatness con-
sists in a complete identification of the actor with the
character, then Sheridan is unmistakably great. On
seeing Louis XL a second time, we tried the experiment
of repeating mechanically to ourselves, ' ' This is Sheri-
dan the actor. " The experiment proved a failure. Sher-

BOOKS RECEIVED.

idan the actor disappeared, and in his place stood the
grim personality of "Louis." Sheridan has this advan-
tage over many of his fellow-actors, that he has attained
celebrity after a long apprenticeship. He is master of
the technics of his art. Sheridan has this in common
with his English prototype, Irving. They are both
realistic, though the former possesses a far greater power
of drawing out the salient features of the characters he

plays. Moreover, he would not have stooped to the
bit of clap-trap which Irving introduced into his Louis
XI. , in making his hair turn white between the fourth
and fifth acts. In fact, herisan artist, disdaining all un-
worthy ways to public favor. Never playing to the gal-
leries, but always to the most critical of his audience,
he has attained complete success by absolutely artistic
methods.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

FOUR CENTURIES OF ENGLISH LETTERS. Selections
from the Correspondence of One Hundred and Fifty
Writers from the Period of the Paston Letters to the
Present Day. Edited and arranged by W. Baptiste
Scoones. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1880.
For sale in San Francisco by Payot, Upham & Co.

This collection of letters is, of course, open to the
same general criticisms as all collections. They are
never very satisfactory. They contain too much and
too various matter to be read consecutively through,
and not enough to be perfectly satisfactory for browsing
among. The old letters of English writers are as inter-
esting as any branch of history, biography, or literature
could be, but the ideal way to read them is in full files.
We ought to have libraries at our elbows in which
should stand side by side full collections of the letters of
every English writer worth publishing, and also of a good
many not worth publishing, to make us appreciate the
good ones. Among these volumes we could search and
prowl at our own sweet will, and feel very much as if we
had found in an old chest up garret stores of yellow
packets recording the courtship of our great-grandfa-
thers and the household affairs of their aunts and
mothers, and had sat down on the floor beside it, with
our laps full of the brittle sheets, to spend a long after-
noon in wandering through the world of a hundred
years ago. The obvious impossibility of reading old
English letters in any such ideal way, unless one lives
at some great literary center, reconciles us to such eclec-
tic works as the one in question. It gives to most of us
the opportunity to read letters that otherwise we should
not have read at all.

It is somewhat surprising to see how small a propor-
tion, even in a book of selected letters, consists of really
good ones, and flattering to nineteenth century van-
ity to see how this proportion steadily increases as
one nears the present time. The chronological order
adopted by the editor displays this progress excellently.
The most marked and permanent impression made by
the book is the steady increase in simplicity, self-re-
spect, and sincerity apparent in the tone of the letters.
The strain of artificial compliment in all the earlier ones
seems to us not simply a custom, but an indication of a
certain servility. The self-respect with which writers of
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries ask favors, the
frank equality with which they address friends, is not to
be found earlier. Humor, too, appears to be in letters
a modern product, though literature showed no lack of
it as far back as Chaucer. Another thing which few of
the older letter-writers seem to have been capable of is
clear and direct expression. It is really refreshing to

see the vague, cumbrous sentences grow clearer, century
by century, as we approach the present.

The really good letters are distributed among a very
few writers, and these are almost invariably men of lit-
erary distinction, whose "Life and Letters" are already
in print. This fact takes away from the interest of the
book. We feel that all that is best in it we have had
before in lives of Charles Lamb, Wordsworth, Macau-
lay, etc. Nevertheless, the book gives us an interesting
opportunity to compare the good with the mediocre ; it
includes many letters that are not brilliant, yet are mildly
interesting, and it also includes some excellent ones that
are not likely to be found elsewhere, especially among
the older writers. There are one or two excellent let-
ters of Roger Ascham, of Sir Thomas More, and of
Lord Bacon, shining out like lamps among feeble tal-
low-dips, and there is at least one good, vigorous letter
from Queen Elizabeth, written when too angry to mind
the formalities. But the whole collection leaves us free
to believe that instead of lost arts, letter-writing and
conversation are still vigorous, and improving from gen-
eration to generation.

LEARNING TO DRAW, OR THE STORY OF A YOUNG DE-
SIGNER. By Viollet-le-Duc. Translated from the
French by Virginia Champlin. Illustrated by the
author. New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. For sale
in San Francisco by A. L. Bancroft & Co.

Everybody can learn to draw, but not everybody can
be an artist. This dictum, which has the support of
Ruskin, is also the guiding principle of the lessons con-
veyed in this capital book by the late distinguished
architect and critic, M. Viollet-le-Duc. "Drawing,"
says the author, " taught as it should be, no more leads
a child to become an artist than instruction in the
French language leads him to become a poet. To me
drawing is simply a mode of recording observations by
the aid of a language which engraves them on the mind
and permits one to utilize them, whatever the career he
follows." If children who have gone through a long
series of drawing lessons "never think of making a
sketch which will remind them of a scene, a place, a
piece of furniture, or a tool," it is "because they have
never been taught to see ; and one learns to see only by
drawing, not from engraved patterns, but from objects
themselves." These principles M. Viollet-le-Duc pro-
ceeds to illustrate in a charming story ; for his whole
book is only the story of a little boy who showed in a
crude, but original, drawing of a cat that he had the
talent of seeing for himself. Captivated by this sketch,

THE CALIFORNIA^.

a generous old bachelor takes the boy into his own
hands, and diligently trains his eye to see and his hand
to record. From the drawing of geometrical cubes he
advances to the study of plants, from plants to the
anatomy of a bat, from the bat to man. On all sides
the habit of observation is strengthened, and in the
course of years the boy and his master visit the cliffs of
the French coast, the "crags and peaks" of Switzerland,
the art galleries of Italy, and at last the boy finds his
vocation. All teachers of drawing will find this book
rich in suggestiveness, and, with a little explanation of
the more technical passages, it might be put in the
hands of pupils with the certainty of stimulating enthu-
siasm and correcting wrong tendencies. We speak of
explanations because the author's philanthropic bachelor
has not always united to his judgment a simplicity of
statement adapted to his youngest readers. There is,
we imagine, an art of being a bachelor not unlike that
"art d'etre grandpere" of which Victor Hugo is the
consummate master.

NEW COLORADO AND THE SANTA FE TRAIL. By
A. A. Hayes, Jr. Illustrated. New York: Harper
& Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by A.
L. Bancroft & Co.

At a moment when a southern overland route is about
to be opened to travelers, the publication of a book de-
scriptive of Colorado and the Santa F£ Trail is espe-
cially timely. Mr. Hayes's copiously illustrated book
is probably the most complete, as well as the most
trustworthy, account of that portion of the country
which has yet been published. Chapters on cattle-
ranches and sheep-herding supply carefully prepared
statistics for the settler, and there are convenient direc-
tions for the tourist and the invalid, besides many inci-
dents of travel and sketches of character for the casual
reader. The style is unfortunately marred by stale quo-
tations, cheap jokes, and a painfully conscious effort to
be amusing.

THE BOY TRAVELERS IN SIAM AND JAVA. By Thom-
as W. Knox. Illustrated. New York : Harper &
Brothers. 1881. For sale in San Francisco by Payot,
Upham & Co.

MR. BODLEY ABROAD. Boston : Houghton, Mifflin
& Co. 1881. For sale in San Francisco by A. L.
Bancroft & Co.

THE LOYAL RONINS. Translated from the Japanese
of Tamenaga Shunsui by Shiuichiro Saito and Ed-
ward Greey. Illustrated by Kei-sai Yei-sen, of Yedo.
G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1880. For sale in San Fran-
cisco by Billings, Harbourne & Co.

JAPANESE FAIRY WORLD. Stories from the Wonder-
lore of Japan. By William Elliot Griffis. Illustrated
by Ozawa, of Tokio. Schenectady, N. Y. : James H.
Barhyte. 1880.

Certainly children's books were never made more
beautiful or interesting than now. Those of the pres-
ent season seem to relate largely to foreign and fascinat-
ing lands. The reputation of the " Bodley Series" is so
well established that Mr. Bodley Abroad will be wel-
comed with delight by thousands. It is profusely illus-
trated, and the peculiar charm of the other Bodley
books is not wanting in this latest one. The Orient
brings all its wonders to delight the children of Amer-
ica. Mr. Thomas Knox, whose Boy Travelers in China
and Japan was so favorably received, leads off with a
supplemental volume, in which he conducts his young

prote'ge's through Siam and Java. A great deal of infor-
mation is mingled with the narrative. The book is
elaborately and beautifully illustrated. In The Loyal
Ronins we have a translation of a Japanese romance,
with cuts by a Japanese artist. The work is certainly
unique in the book-maker's line. The " Loyal Ronins"
were a band of faithful retainers who avenged the death
of their master. As a piece of literary bric-a-brac this
book is unexcelled. Not less quaint in its way is the
Japanese Fairy World, in which the folk-lore of Japan
is reproduced. Here also are specimens of native
art. Those who delight in the literature of fairy-land,
and we confess we believe them to be the best and most
sympathetic minds to be found, will hail this addition
from a new and strange quarter.

ONTI ORA. A Metrical Romance. By M. B. M. To-
land. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. For
sale in San Francisco by A. L. Bancroft & Co.

This little volume, beautifully bound and illustrated,
is just at hand. The author is the widow of the late Dr.
H. H. Toland, of this city, and to his memory the work
is dedicated. Aside from a certain facility of metric con-
struction, and a few good lines here and there, the
poetry is ordinary and spiritless. Purporting to be
American in scene and plot, the surroundings rapidly
become European as the story advances, and the thread
of narrative, with its gypsies, apparitions, and noble
Frenchmen, is stereotyped and threadbare. The com-
position lacks character, thought, and the true poetic
atmosphere, and we cannot but deplore the tendency
toward the production of this class of literature.

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. A Narrative Poem, with
Some Minor Poems. By Thomas E. Van Bebber.
1880. San Francisco : A. L. Bancroft & Co.

The work before us has been indited by a Californian
writer and issued by a Californian publisher. We feel
very friendly to home enterprise. We therefore refrain
from a review.

THREE FRIENDS' FANCIES. Philadelphia : J. B. Lip-
pincott & Co. 1880.

JOHN SWINTON'S TRAVELS. New York : G. W. Carle-
ton & Co. 1880.

LOCKE. By Thomas Fowler. English Men of Let-
ters Series. New York : Harper & Brothers. 1880.
For sale in San Francisco by Payot, Upham & Co.

MARPLE HALL MYSTERY. A Romance. By Enrique
Palmer. New York : Authors' Publishing Co. 1880.

FRANKLIN SQUARE LIBRARY. New York : Harper &
Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by Payot,
Upham & Co.
No. 143. — English Men of Letters — Burns, Goldsmith,

Bunyan.
No. 144.— English Men of Letters— Johnson, Scott,

Thackeray.

No. 145. — Three Recruits. A Novel. By Joseph Hat-
ton.

HARPER'S HALF-HOUR SERIES. New York : Harper
& Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by
Payot, Upham & Co.

No. 145. — Missing. By Mary Cecil Hay.

O UTCROPPINGS.

OUTCROPPINGS.

CHRISTMAS.

When I look back over the years that I have lived, I
find my earliest recollections clustered around Christ-
mas, and clinging with a tenacity that defies time. I
can recall every incident of that happy season — the joy-
ful anticipation, which dated from the morning of the
fifth of July ; the eager expectation as the time drew
near ; the count of months and days and hours ; the
mysterious hush of Christmas Eve ; the golden dreams
that thronged the night, and the delirious joy of the
winter dawn ; the pattering of little feet, and the visions
of little nightgowns, as the elders were awakened by the
happy childish voices. Then the calm fruition of the
day, and the sisters and the cousins, and the turkey and
the pudding, and the stomach-ache that grandly crown-
ed the whole. But the day came when we awoke from
the bright dream, and in place of the rubicund and
frosty face, the flowing beard, and the pawing reindeer,
we found the ministering hands of parents and friends.
It is the first idol that is broken, and nothing in after
life, neither riches, nor power, nor fame, nor beauty, nor
love, can quite fill the pedestal. Out of the mists of
life's morning the rising sun fashions fleecy mountains
and cloudy towers and depths of golden sea, while the
bright blaze of manhood's noon dwarfs the mountain,
scatters the towers, and the sea itself is found to be but
the mirage of youth. But, though bright illusions go
out of life, memory is constantly recalling them. Nor
is material progress really hostile to sentiment ; it is sim-
ply busy. By and by, when it sits down for a moment
to wipe its heated brow, it will be sorry it had not time
to notice that poor little feeling. Amid the clank of the
piston, and the hiss of steam, and the click of the mag-
netic lever, the human heart is still beating, and once a
year the children's hour commands a hush till you can
count the throbs. . Who shall estimate the value of this
season ? How many withered hearts have been renewed
under its tender influence ! How many selfish natures
have felt the unwonted pleasure of making others hap-
py ! To how many Scrooges the Christmas carol has
brought a revelation of humanity ! If Christianity had
given the world nothing else but Christmas, it would
have given that which, in the sum of human happiness,
outweighs all the gifts of all the creeds that earth has
seen. Its distinctive glory is that it is the religion of hu-
manity— the religion that softens man, that elevates
woman, that casts a halo around infancy. The doc-
trine of Christ's nativity may be repugnant to the rea-
son ; the facts of his humanity touch the heart. Who
can withhold veneration from a being who, in a world
of violence and hate, preached the gospel of peace and
love.

In the noble words of Macaulay, ' ' It was before Deity,
embodied in a human form, walking among men, par-
taking of their infirmities, sharing in their joys, leaning
on their bosoms, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on
the cross, that the prejudices of the synagogue, and the
doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico,
and the fasces of the lictor, and the swords of thirty le-
gions were humbled in the dust." To realize what

Christianity has done for women, look back on the an-
cient world. Take the literature of Greece. Think of
its richness and variety. What phase of thought or
feeling has it left untouched ? It has reached the hight
of sublimity in the thunder of Demosthenes, and the
billowy roll of Homer's hexameters. It has sounded the
depths of passion in the tragedies of .5£schylus and
Sophocles. It has peopled comedy with the most fan-
tastic figures, and made it vocal with bursts of song and
peals of elfish laughter. What impression do we carry
away of women ? We know that there was a class of
brilliant beings who amused the leisure, and sometimes
shared the toil, of great men. But they had no domes-
tic existence. We know that Socrates had a wife the
thought of whom must have made the hemlock palatable.
Doubtless, there was the household drudge, but her life
has no place in story. The names of some Roman ma-
trons have survived, famed chiefly for harsh and unlove-
ly virtues. But woman, the companion and helpmate
of man, the sharer of his joys, the consoler of his griefs,
the queen on whose brow the wreaths of poetry were
laid, and at whose feet mail-clad warriors knelt, owes all
that makes her lot brighter than the lot of her sister in
the ancient world to the infant that was born on Christ-
mas Day. Has she forgotten it? Religion, faint from
the blows of reason, has taken refuge in the hearts of
women. Darwin and Spencer, and Huxley and Tyn-
dall, may investigate, and illustrate, and demonstrate,
and prove ; as long as one mother shall gather her lit-
tle ones around her to tell them the story of Bethlehem,
so long one ear shall be deaf and one heart closed to
aught that would injure the religion which made a wom-
an the mother of God. Christ said, "Suffer the little
children to come unto me." They have come, O Gali-
lean ! Men may reject Thy cross, but children will
kneel around Thy cradle. E. FIELD.

AT THE CIRCUS.

It was really a splendid show, was Cole's Circus.
( Don't start, Mr. Editor ; it's neither a puff nor an ad-
vertisement— they sailed for Australia more than two
months ago.) It was instructive, too, my escort said, as
we stopped in the menagerie tent to look at the ani-
mals, tame and wild, there assembled.

" Highly instructive," I assented, bitterly, as I gazed
at the zebra in his cage ; "for didn't I boldly use the sim-
ile 'striped as a zebra's legs,' in something I wrote the
other day ; and here I find every part of that aggravat-
ing brute's body striped, head and tail included— only
not his legs ! What shall I do?"

"Don't write about what you don't know, for the fut-
ure," was the curt reply.

I got mad, of course, but kept my mouth shut till it
was time to go into the next tent to see the perform-
ance. Just as my escort was about to enter the narrow
lane leading into the large tent, I held him back.

"Don't," said I, beseechingly; "don't leave this
tent. You can see for yourself that this menagerie is
' the most comprehensive and complete ever brought to

THE CALIFORNIAN.

this coast,' with one exception — they have no bear.
Now, if you could only be prevailed upon to stay with
them, the collection would be perfect."

He pocketed my rebuke as submissively as I had taken
his, and we went amicably together in search of our
seats. The performance progressed in the usual satis-
factory manner ; the horses were something above the
average ; the wit of the clowns fell but little behind, and
the athletes kept one in a delicious state of expectancy ;
every leap through mid -air looked as if it must be their
last.

Just as the young lady who suspended herself through
a pair of rings, about five hundred feet above sea level,
was twisting and untwisting herself, to the enchanting
strains of "Sweet spirit, hear my prayer," my dizzy
glance slipped over something directly in front of me.
I had brought my eyes down from the gyrating maiden
on high, to rest them. But when they fell where they
did, they literally slipped right off, and I had to raise
them to my neighbor's face, so that they could rest on
something dull and sober- tinted.' I took the liberty to
nudge him, however, and point out to him the shining
object with my finger. It was a little boy's head, with
the hair shingled. Shingled? Scraped, sand-papered,
planed off, .would express it better. It was just one
polished surface, cranium and forehead alike smooth,
and the rays of the light reflected fronvboth with equal
brilliancy.

Even Bruin chuckled ; and I laughed till I thought
the boy's broad-faced mother must turn around to see
what I was laughing at. Perhaps my laughter did not
strike her as out of place, for she herself laughed at
everything that was said and done — even by the clowns;
and her pug-nosed husband brought up the rear of the
ripple, so to speak — for from the mother the shingle-
headed boy took his cue, and from him, two larger broth-
ers, seated between him and the father ; and, in this
way, the laugh passed along the whole line.

Soon, however, a dark cloud was to obscure all this
harmony and mirth. A loud-voiced man stepped into
the middle of the ring, and announced that, after this
performance was closed, there would be an extra per-
formance— a family concert — to which all were invited
to remain, upon payment of the extraordinarily low sum
of twenty-five cents per head. It was a study to watch
the effect of this announcement on the group in front
of me. The pug-nosed father looked, questioningly, at
the broad-faced mother ; but this worthy matron's feat-
tures seemed to harden and set during the short speech
of the showman, and the three boys, never once con-
sulting the eyes of the father, turned their triple atten-
tion to the madres face. She was determined to ignore
the three pairs of pleading eyes fixed upon her, and she
looked straight ahead at the saw-dust ring ; but three
voices raised, in chorus, "Ma, let's stay — shan't we?"
soon convinced her that this storm must be bravely
faced.

"Hsh — sh — sh," she whispered, energetically, "not
a whimper out of you; " and she learned forward to give
them all the benefit of her threatening eye. The storm
was only momentarily quelled, however, and it broke
out with renewed fury directly.

"Ma, I want to stay — want to stay — want to stay,"
the refrain came along the line, more clamorously than
before, and the stern parent was obliged to resort to
more severe measures. Without another word she
passed her arm behind the three young lads, and a
spasmodic backward jerk of the oldest one's head, and

his sudden silence, convinced me that his hair had been
pulled with unusual vigor. The second one dodged for-
ward in the midst of his refrain, but did not escape his
measure. Only the youngest, the one nearest her, came
off unscathed.

Bruin had been watching this side-show with his
habitual somber expression, but he bent over to whisper
in my ear :

"Now you see what a shingled head is good for.
That boy escaped his mother's wrath only by having no
hair to pull."

I bridled up at once.

"Nothing of the kind," I said, indignantly; "she
never meant to pull his hair. He's the youngest, don't
you see? She wouldn't pull his hair if he had a bushel
of it, and, besides, there's enough hair on his head to
pull, if it is shingled. But what does a bear know about
maternal tenderness and forbearance toward a youngest
child?"

And I shrugged my shoulders in pity and contempt.

When we got ready to go, the interesting family
marched ahead of us in the same order they had sat be-
fore us: mother, youngest, second youngest, oldest,
father. Almost at the outlet of the tent stood the
tempter once more, proclaiming this as the last chance
to buy tickets for the family concert about to begin in a
few minutes, price only twenty-five cents, children with
their parents, free. Madame the mother set her teeth;
Monsieur the father looked moved ; but Messieurs the
sons set up a shout of mingled woe and remonstrance
against maternal cruelty and hard-heartedness. Mov-
ing on with the crowd, and unheeding the combined
lamentations, the strong arm of discipline was once
more brought around the three pairs of shoulders, two
youthful heads were jerked backward, the third dodging
instinctively, but, Bruin insisted, unnecessarily.

"I tell you," he whispered, excitedly, "she can'tpnll
the little one's hair or she would. I can see it in her
eye."

"You are mistaken," I answered, loftily, determined
to have the last word, at all events; "she does not want
to pull it. But there is hair enough on the boy's head
to pull, and I'll prove it to you."

Bringing thumb and forefinger close together (for I
knew there was not very much hair), I raised my hand
stealthily to the back of the youngest boy's head, took a
good aim, and smiled in anticipation of seeing a startled
childish face turn on me with a command to "stop
pulling my hair." Instead of that, presently came a
howl:

"Ow — wow! O golly, who's a-pinchin' my head?"
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD.

NIRVANA.
I stand before thy giant form, Ranier,

That rises wrapped in robe of dazzling snow,

And wonder what has made thee tower so
Calm, cold, and changeless in the sunlight clear.
The answer comes : Volcanic rocks have here

For ages burnt, upcast with fiercest glow

In fiery ..torrents from the hell below.
Thus did this mighty pyramid uprear
Its matchless form, till now it stands alone

Above the storms that vex the lower skies,
And snows eternal clothe its shapely cone.

O soul, cast out the hell that in thee lies
Of passions and desires that makes thee moan,

And, clad in white, thou, too, shalt grandly rise.
C. S. GREENE.

OUTCROPPINGS.

SOME INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS.

Old Tousus came into my claim one morning, equip-
ped, as usual, with his mining outfit, consisting of a
broken pick, a pan, and tin cup, and a piece of hoop-
iron which had been transformed into a scraper. In
those days the Indian population did a great deal of
mining in a small way, and it was no uncommon thing
to see a whole village, including the squaws and pa-
pooses, scraping industriously over the bed-rock which
the white miners had cleaned in the careless way pecul-
iar to the early days of mining, and instances are not
wanting in which the Indians got the cream of the
claim.

Tousus did not come alone this morning. He was
followed by his squaw and little ones, and with them
was an old Indian I did not recollect having seen be-
fore. I asked Tousus who he was.

" He — he my brother."

"What's his name?"

"Jim."

"I don't mean his American name, but what is his
name in Indian?"

"O-o."

Which, being freely translated, meant that he did not
know. Now, any man, white or Indian, should know
the name of his brother, and of course Tousus lied. But
the lie was what we Christians would call a "white"
one, because it was told without intent to do any harm.
As a matter of fact, old Tousus would about as soon
have thought of cutting off one of his hands as to tell a
stranger the Indian name of either himself or any one
closely connected with him. In his firm belief, it would
be followed by some great disaster to the party. But
other Indians, while equally reticent about themselves,
gave me the coveted information without hesitation, and
I found the name of the new-comer was "Wywanny,"
which signifies "going north."

It was not a great while after this that I had an op-
portunity of seeing another example of Indian customs,
which, while it does not have so deep a foundation in
superstition as the one I have instanced, was yet ad-
hered to most religiously. "Kentuck," a young Indian
who had already attained fame as a hunter, was taken
sick, and, notwithstanding the incantation of the most
famous "medicine men" of which the tribe could boast,
died in a very short time. Kentuck was the son of a
former chief, and Indians came from far and near to
attend the burial. A deep, round hole was dug, the
body, rolled in blankets and doubled up like a ball, was
lowered in, and then commenced the destruction of
everything he owned while living. Among other things,
a fine, new rifle, with which he had slain about forty
deer the winter previous, was broken across a log, and
the pieces thrown into the grave. Kentuck had been
the purveyor of fresh meat the winter before for the
whole camp, whites as well as Indians, for the snow had
fallen deep early in the fall, and beef-cattle could not be
driven across the mountains. Knowing Kentuck's gun
to be the only good one owned by the Indians, I asked
another, who was also a good hunter, why it was not
saved. His answer was conclusive, so far as it went :

" He's dead now — he can't shoot it any more."

The wanderings of the Indians took them to another
section, and some months elapsed before I saw Tousus
again. When I next saw him, the whole family, as well
as himself, were daubed with pitch — a sign of mourn-
ing.

"Who's dead, John?" I asked, using the name the
whites had given him.

"My brother."

"What ? Wywanny, the one here last summer?"

But such a cry of horror at this inquiry went up that
I knew at once that I had, to use a slang phrase, "put
my foot in it" somehow. Cries of " Don't name him,"
or words of similar import, came from every one. When
the shock occasioned by my blunder had subsided, I
asked one who talked English pretty well why the name
of a dead Indian was not to be spoken, and was an-
swered at once :

' ' S'pose he hears you call his name, then he'll come
here."

These superstitions of the race have given rise to
some curious incidents. The valley of the Trinity,
when gold was first discovered, supported a large abo-
riginal population, and by all the accounts which have
been handed down to us, it would seem that they were
very friendly toward the new-comers. Be that as it
may, the friendly feeling was soon broken by the act of
an Oregonian, who shot an Indian deliberately one day,
"just to see him jump," he said. After this act the In-
dians took to the mountains, and kept up a predatory
warfare against the whites until the spring of 1852, when
one of their camps being surprised and almost the en-
tire population killed, in punishment for the murder of
Captain Anderson, near Weaverville, the other villages
sent in messengers to ask for peace. But the number of
white men whose lives were sacrificed before this time
was reached will never be known. The Indians were
conscious of the numbers and superiority of those with
whom they had to do, and carried on their war of re-
venge with a fiendish cunning which for a long time
secured them comparative immunity from pursuit and
vengeance. At that time the prospector who was pres-
ent one day might be found miles away upon the mor-
row ; or he might be encamped for weeks in a place while
his very name would be unknown, perhaps, to his near-
est neighbor. If missed from his claim or camp, it
would be assumed that he had gone to some other local-
ity, and if no suspicions of foul play were raised, the
chances were that in a very brief space of time he would
be forgotten. Such a condition of affairs was in every
way favorable to the manner in which the Indians con-
ducted their attacks, which were always directed against
small parties or single miners and travelers, and were
so successful that their victims never escaped to tell the
tale.

After peace was concluded, the tribe came into the
settlements and freely intermingled with the whites,
when one of the common results of frontier life soon
followed. Women, in the mines, were few and far
between, and, as a natural result of this condition of
society, many of the miners "took up" with Indian
women. Some of these ill-assorted alliances continue
even to the present day, where the miners became
attached to the ones they had chosen, and were legally
married. It was then only that the whites began to
learn the extent to which their race had suffered while
hostilities were in progress. Many a spot has since
been pointed out as the scene of a conflict, in which
one or more white men were slaughtered, and their
bodies dragged away to some lone place, or buried, to
conceal the evidences of the fray.

Plunder, as a matter of course, was a necessary
accompaniment — plunder for its own sake, if nothing
more. In many cases, the victims were the possessors

THE CALIFORNIAN.

of large amounts of money, generally gold-dust. The
Indians knew nothing then of the uses or the value of
money. To them, it was only something that the white
man cared for, and, therefore, legitimate "spoils of
war." When one of their own number was killed,
either in a fight where the white man was killed also, or
on a cabin -robbing excursion, the booty thus acquired
was looked upon as the peculiar property of the un-
fortunate aborigine, and buried with him. In many
cases it was stolen, and thrown away afterward, as of
no value. A legend points to a large sum thrown into
the bushes, within sight of the town of Weaverville,
which, though search has been made for it several
times, has never been found. So far as recovering any-
thing of this kind which was buried with, or strewn
above the grave of one of their number, so great is their
superstition that they would not think of touching a
penny's worth of it, though it kept them from starving.
And the same superstitious fear of speaking of the dead
prevents them from pointing out such deposits to any
white man, however friendly the relations may be other-
wise. It was not until after years had passed, and those
who lived with the whites began to be somewhat shaken
in their beliefs, that intimations (slight and intangible
at first, but given more fully after frequent questionings)
were dropped. Yet although twenty or thirty places,
where large sacks of dust, and pieces of money, ' ' shaped
as if cut off the end of a rifle - barrel " (fifty -dollar
"slugs"), have been indicated, only two, so far as
known, have been discovered. Two or three more of
these mysterious finds have been made which may, or
may not, be attributed originally to this cause. Of the
first of these, I knew but little ; the second I knew of,
for I was well acquainted with all the parties, and
learned the full particulars, except in regard to the
amount of treasure recovered.

From the particulars of the story, it seems that some
time in the year '50, or '51, a white man was traveling
alone down the Trinity River, below the point where
the main wagon-road to Shasta now crosses the stream.
He rode a white horse, and carried a rifle. He was
seen by a small band of Indians, who were upon the
mountain above. They slipped across the ridge to a
bend of the river below, to a point where the mouth of
two brushy ravines made a most complete ambush. In
the fight that followed, the white man was killed ; his
body was hidden, or buried; the gun, which became
broken in the contest, was thrown into the river ; while
the white horse and pack were taken to the Digger
camp. But the rifle, before it was broken, sent its mes-
senger of death through the arm of one of the attacking
party ; and as the Indians were not able to bring any
of the appliances of surgery to the aid of the wounded
man, the hand came off some time before the death of
the Indian. The hand was buried, and the gold-dust
scattered on the little grave, with all the funeral cere-
monies.

Among those present at this burial was a little girl of
five or six years of age. Some years later, she was liv-
ing with a white man, to whom she related the incident,
and a party was at once formed to search for the treas-
ure. The grave was in a flat, now fenced in and sowed
to grain, and the leveled ground showed no trace of
anything unusual. It soon became evident that the
squaw either did not know the exact locality of the ob-
ject of their search, or, knowing, was so worked upon
by her superstitions, or so influenced by others, that
she would make no further revelations. After they had

searched for about two weeks, and were about ready to
give up, a band of Indians passed where they were
working, and stopped to talk with the squaw, who told
them what they were looking for. With the band was
an older woman, who was known to have been at the
burial, but resisted all persuasion and offers of reward
to disclose what she knew. From the fragments of con-
versation overheard by the white men, it became evi-
dent that the Indians were Irying to influence the
young squaw to persuade her companions to quit the
search. When the band went away, it was noticed
that the old woman cast a stealthy glance toward an
oak tree in another part of the field, and after the de-
parture of the band, the man who observed this went
where she had looked, and was fortunate enough to find
the treasure. The ground had been plowed and har-
rowed several times, scattering the dust over a large
surface, but the party (although they kept their own
counsel) undoubtedly recovered several thousand dol-
lars.

A great many other searches have been made, but
with very indifferent success. As matters now stand, it
is probable that nothing more will ever be found, unless
through the medium of accident. The once numerous
tribe of the Wintoons, which then peopled the valley of
Trinity and its branches, has dwindled away to a mere
handful, and if there are any yet living who remember
the places to which Indian custom consigned the plun-
der taken from the hated race, their superstition is yet
so strong that they will carry the secret with them to
their graves. T. E. JONES.

AT POINT BONITA.

Upon this frowning promontory's hight

Whose base is lashed by the upheaving surge,

I stand alone, and watch, with aching sight,
Yon lessening speck on the horizon's verge.

I trust my love to thee, and am undone

If thou prove merciless, O treacherous sea !

Thou hast thy myriads, while I have but one,
But she outvalues all thy wealth, with me.

Brave bark that bears her, fading down the west,
God speed thee, since 'twere vain to bid thee stay.

With thy fair freight o'er Ocean's placid breast,
May heaven's own zephyrs waft thee on thy way.

And thou, sweet wanderer, my plighted bride,
Though fate condemns us for a time to part,

Where'er thou stray 'st, thy home is by my side,
Thy throne, fair despot, still is in my heart.

•GEORGE T. RUSSELL.

AUTHORSHIP AND CRITICISM.

Addison somewhere declares that no man writes a
book without meaning something, although he may not
possess the happy faculty of writing consequentially,
and expressing his meaning clearly. So also is many a
well intentioned author mistaken in his judgment as to
the value of that which he would indite ; and, after the
labor of composing and the expense of publication —
when it is too late — it is discovered that time and labor
and money have been expended upon a useless or vi-
cious thing. When such is unfortunately the sad state
of affairs, the fact is surely brought to light when the
vigorous scalpel of the vigilant critic is applied to the
tissue of the work.

O UTCROPPINGS.

The last named class of professionals, when they ply
their art with a knowing hand, a steady nerve, and an
honest heart, are very serviceable, alike to those who
read and those who write ; for they freely and fearlessly
lay bare every substance -fiber, point out with unerring
precision every element of truth and of beauty, and
distinguish every tissue of worth and worthlessness ;
but when captious instead of critical, malignant instead
of just, and bungling and boggling instead of applying
with confidence and skill and intrepidity those tests
that reveal true worth, separate gold from dross, they
mislead the public, and send a Java - poisoned arrow,
quivering, into the bleeding bosom of a worthy author,
which, like a gnawing canker, saps the life-blood of his
young ambition, and, mayhap, consigns him to oblivion
or the tomb.

England's erratic poet sings mournfully of

"John Keats — who was killed off by one critique,
Just as he promised something great."

Her abused and neglected singer, whose organization
was so delicate that he could

" Hardly bear
The weight of the superincumbent hour,"

whose earthly remains were committed to the urn near
the Spezian floods, and his great cor cordium was sent
to the British Museum to be placed among the curiosi-
ties of his native country, says that this kind and gen-
tle and loving minstrel fell

"Pierced by the shaft which flies in darkness."

A strangely sensitive creature Keats certainly must
have been, who could feel so deeply an unjust criticism
that a hireling reviewer could publish ; yet he did feel,
and feel poignantly, the sting of the viper t and his spirit
was so utterly broken by it, his ambition so hopelessly
crushed, and his despair so absolutely reckless, that, as
Headley declares, he wished to record his own ruin, and
have his very tombstone tell how worthless were his
life and name. With the fading of the last ray of hope
of life, his dying hand indited a line he directed to be
placed upon whatever monument should call the atten-
tion of succeeding generations to his last resting-place,
which was done. The line reads thus :

"Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

Surely singing birds, who prosper in serene regions,
cannot flourish in a storm.

"Oh. can one envious tongue
So blight and "blast earth's holiest things
That e'en the glorious bard that sings

Grows mute, and, all unstrung,
His bleeding, quivering heart gives o'er,
And dies without one effort more?"

Dr. John Hawkesworth, a brilliant essayist, whom
Samuel Johnson pronounced capable of dignifying his
narratives with elegance of diction and force of senti-
ment, is said by the elder Disraeli to have "died of crit-
icism." Dr. Bently declares, and he was in a position
to know whereof he spoke, that John Lake's^thorough
confutation of Bishop Stillingfleet's metaphysical treatise
on the "Trinity" hastened the death of the Bishop.
William Whiston, the intimate friend and warm ad-
mirer of Sir Isaac Newton, declared that he did not
think it proper to publish his treatise in confutation of
the philosopher's work on the "Chronology of Ancient

Kingdoms" during his lifetime, because he said he knew
Newton's temperament so well he knew that it would
kill him. Pope, the invalid poet, writhed in his chair
under the sting of the light shafts darted at him by
crabbed Gibber. And Tennyson, the English laureate,
ere he had yet given anything to the public, read that
exquisite little poem, "Lilian," to a company of his
friends, and was laughed out of the room for his pains.
When he first published his poems the critics found
fault with them, and, with his shy and somber nature,
Tennyson retired to solitude and study, and for ten
years his name was not seen in print, and his very ex-
istence was forgotten by the literary world. WThen he
did appear again and claim the attention of the public,
he took his position among the veterans. Who can tell
what would have been the result had the critics again
found fault with his performances and the public turned
aside with a sigh of disappointment?

The light of many a rising and ambitious genius — the
world and the critics now recognize the critic-murdered
Keats to have been a man within whose sensitive and
delicate organization resided the Olympic fire of true
genius — has been nipped in the bud by the unjust and
harsh opinion of some hireling critic ; so that in this day
of doggerel verses and crabbed criticism we feel fully
the force of Pope's caustic couplet, when he says :

" Such shameless bards we have ; and yet, 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics, too."

When Byron's pugnacious spirit was roused to its
highest pitch of fury by Henry (subsequently Lord)
Brougham's ill-natured critique in the Edinburgh Re-
view on his " Hours of Idleness," he wrote, in consum-
mate spleen :

"As soon

Seek roses in December, ice in June ;

Hope constancy in the wind, or corn in chaff;

Believe a woman, or an epitaph,

Or anything else that's false, before

You trust in critics."

And when Dr. Kenrick pronounced "The Traveler"
to be "a flimsy poem," discussed it as a grave political
pamphlet, condemned the whole system, and declared
it built on false principles, and said that ' ' The Deserted
Village" was "pretty," but that it had " neither fancy,
dignity, genius, nor fire" — poor Goldsmith, the impul-
sive child of Nature, could not resist the temptation to
visit condign punishment, though summary justice,
upon the impudent critic by administering to him a
sound caning. For this indiscreet action the public
severely condemned the poet. He published a defense
of his action in the papers of the day, in which occurs
the following characteristic paragraph :

" The law gives us no protection against this injury. The
insults we receive before the public, by being more open, are
the more distressing ; by treating them with silent contempt
we do not pay a sufficient deference to the opinion of the
world. By recurring to legal redress we too often expose the
weakness of the law, which only increases our mortification by
failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly con-
sider himself as a guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as
far as his influence can extend, should endeavor to prevent its
licentiousness becoming at last the grave of its freedom."

Goldsmith was in a measure justified in his action.
This man Kenrick was an Ishmaelite of the press — the
hired tool of the Griffiths. He was a man of some
talent and great industry, who had abandoned a paying

THE CALIFORNIAN.

business as a mechanic for the thorny path of author-
ship as a profession. He tried his hand in every de-
partment of literature, gained a popular name, and re-
ceived from some obscure university the title of Doctor
of Laws; but he did not win success. He was one
among that class of men of whom Dr. Johnson said
they succeeded in making themselves public without
making themselves known. His own want of success
made him jealous of every one who was in any measure
successful ; and being reduced to book-work to gain a
livelihood, in malignant reviews he made dastardly at-
tacks on almost all the authors of his day. The follow-
ing sketch of the critic is left by one of his contempora-
ries whom he had attacked :

" Dreaming of genius which he never had,
Half wit, half fool, half critic, and half mad ;
Seizing, like Shirley, on the poet's lyre,
With all his rage, but not one spark of fire ;
Eager for slaughter, and resolved to tear
From others' brows that wreath he must not wear,
Next Kenrick came ; all furious and replete
With brandy, malice, pretense, and conceit;
Unskilled in classic lore, through envy blind
To all that's beauteous, learned, or refined;
For faults alone behold the savage prowl,
With reason's offal glut his raving soul ;
Pleased with his prey, its inmost blood he drinks,
And mumbles, paws, and turns it, till il stinks."

Vicious criticism, though always ungenial and nip-
ping, to use Disraeli's figure, ' ' does not always kill the
tree it has frozen over," and points with force the say-
ing of Richard Cumberland, that authors should never
be thin-skinned, but shelled like the rhinoceros. Yet it
is a sadly lamentable fact that the solitary road to liter-
ary preferment and successful authorship lies through
the galling gauntlet of criticism ; and it requires some-
thing of the spirit that impels the warrior to scale the
walls of the citadel and carry off the fire-belching can-
non, to pursue the even tenor of a course mapped out,
and of plans laid, undisturbed and unruffled by the
average critic's chirp — a something not at all in keep-
ing with the modest, retired, and timorous ^nature of
most authors.

It is certainly a source of consolation and comfort to
sickened and disheartened authors to know that in his
tremendous sweep, old Father Time, the great autocrat
of the world and the sovereign arbiter of the fame of
men and the life of nations, not only destroys authors
and annihilates critics, but, with a benevolence scarce
expected and surely not surpassed by mortals, kindly
rescues from the slough of contempt and the misery of
neglect some who have been ruthlessly cast down by
critics, and mercilessly consigned to oblivion by the
shallow public who humbly bow down at the critic's
shrine, and, by daily weakening and removing unjust
criticisms and unfounded prejudices, lifts worthy au-
thors to their deserved places in the world's literature
and history, making them

"A burnin' and a shinin' light"

to all the nations. In ancient times, when superstition
and ignorance held a firm grip upon the base of the
world, the dignities of the church detected witches and
the magnates of the cities rabid dogs, by casting them
into the water ; so also could they, by a direct interpo-
sition of the hand of Providence, bring to light the truth
or falsity of a statement or position, the worth or worth-
lessness of a book, by an application of the "ordeal by

fire." When all Italy was thrown into intense excite-
ment over the proposition to substitute the Roman for
the Mozarbaic rite, about the year 1077, with one com-
mon voice a resort was made to the fire ordeal. A mis-
sal from each was committed to the flames, and, to the
great joy of all patriotic Castilians, the Gothic offices
were untouched by the flames, while the others were
utterly consumed; and thus, it was contended and con-
ceded, the Lord of Hosts confirmed the decisions of
the courts previously rendered in favor of the national
ritual, greatly to the consternation and mortification of
the partisans of the Roman offices. It will be remem-
bered by the student of church history that at the com-
mencement of St. Dominic's crusade against the Albi-
genses, the arguments of each were reduced to writing
and the parchments committed to the flames to test the
truth and accuracy of each. That of the Saint was un-
scathed by the fire, while that of his opponents was re-
duced to ashes. An appeal to this "law of fire" oc-
curred at Constantinople as late as the thirteenth cen-
tury. When Andronicus II. ascended the Byzantine
throne, he found the city torn into factions by reason of
the expulsion of Assenius from the patriarchate ; and,
in accordance with the prevailing custom and the popu-
lar demand, the statements and claims of each faction
were reduced to writing and consigned to the all-deter-
mining fire-fiend, to ascertain which was in the wrong,
when, much to the mutual surprise of each faction, the
manuscript of each was entirely consumed.

This method of detecting spiritual truths and testing
literary excellence may have been potent and reliable
during those dark days of human history, when devils
incarnate walked the earth and lurked in the vicinity of
churches, and their allies — witches — infested and pes-
tered communities, but it long since passed from use
among the civilized and the enlightened, whom devils
have abandoned and witches have ceased to trouble.
Fire may now very properly be dubbed a consuming
critic, inasmuch as it consumes all works regardless of
classes or merits.

Criticism proper may be divided into two classes or
kinds, to wit : Constructive criticism and destructive
criticism. It is the province and mission of the first
class to analyze and detect the author's methods of pro-
cedure, as well as to point out the beauties that are to
be admired and the defects that are to be shunned and
avoided ; and thus help to a hearty appreciation of a
chaste and healthy literature. The solitary end and
aim of destructive criticism is to find fault and point out
defects ; the first is frequently, if not generally, cap-
tiously done, and the latter magnified, if not manufact-
ured. This class of criticism, while distaseful alike to
the author and the public, can benefit but one party,
and that is the author criticised. This is not a class of
criticism to be indulged in by the critic or commended
by the public.

Literary criticism is regarded by many as merely the
art of finding fault systematically ; the frigid application
of certain technical terms and set rules, known and ap-
plied mainly by one class of persons only, by means of
which those who make them a study are enabled to
cavil and censure in a learned manner. Such has been
declared by the prince of English rhetoricians to be "the
criticism of pedants only." He then adds, and his doc-
trine in this is recognized as the true and only one :

"True criticism is a liberal and humane art. It is
the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims
at acquiring a just discernment of the real merit of au-

O UTCROPPINGS.

thors. It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while
it preserves us from the blind and implicit veneration
which would confound their beauties and their faults in
our esteem. It teaches us, in a word, to admire and to
blame with judgment, and not to follow the crowd
blindly." J. MANFORD KERR.

NO MORE!

Come back? Ah, yes, when the faith

Thou hast slain like a bird in its track
Shall arise and revive out of death,
I will come back.

Come back? Yes, when from the dust

Of the grave's mouth, hollow and black,
Shall awaken my dead, lost trust,
I will come back.

And when in my heart this word

That tells of thy treason is dumb,
Thy voice that recalls may be heard,
And I will come.

But the dead that are dead rise not ;

From the night with its ruin and wrack,
The hope that went forth proud and hot
Doth not come back.

And the grave and the pit give not up

The feet that have trodden their track ;
And the drops thou hast spilled from the cup,
Can they come back?

No ; pass on thy way, and know this :

Nevermore, through the long years' sum,
Shall we meet for woe or for bliss —

I will not come. BARTON GREY.

A MULE KICKS A BEE- HIVE.

I was visiting a gentleman who lived in the vicinity of
Los Angeles. The morning was beautiful. The plash
of little cascades about the grounds, the buzz of bees,
and the gentle moving of the foliage of the pepper trees
in the scarcely perceptible ocean-breeze, made up a pict-
ure which I thought was complete. It was not. A
mule wandered on the scene. The scene, I thought,
could have got along without him. He took a different
view.

Of course mules were not allowed on the grounds.
That is what he knew. That was his reason for being
there.

I recognized him. Had met him. His lower lip
hung down. He looked disgusted. It seemed he didn't
like being a mule.

A day or two before, while I was trying to pick up a
little child who had got too near this mule's heels, he
kicked me two or three times before I could tell from
. which way I was hit. I might have avoided some of
the kicking, but, in my confusion, I began to kick at
the mule. I didn't kick with him long. He outnum-
bered me.

He browsed along on the choice shrubbery. I forgot
the beauty of the morning. Remembered a black and
blue spot on my leg. It looked like the print of a mule's
hoof. There was another on my right hip. Where my
suspenders crossed were two more, as I have been in-
formed. They were side by side — twin blue spots, and
seemed to be about the same age.

I thought of revenge. I didn't want to kick with him
any more. No. But thought, if I had him tied down

good and fast, so he could not move his heels, how like
sweet incense it would be to first saw his ears and tail
smooth off, then put out his eyes with a red-hot poker,
then skin him alive, then run him through a threshing-
machine.

While I was thus thinking, and getting madder and
madder, the mule, which had wandered up close to
a large bee -hive, got stung. His eyes lighted up, as if
that was just what he was looking for. He turned on
that bee-hive and took aim. He fired. In ten seconds,
the only piece of bee -hive I could see was about the size
a man feels when he has told a joke that falls on the
company like a piece of sad news. This piece was in
the air. It was being kicked at.

The bees swarmed. They swarmed a good deal.
They lit on that mule earnestly. After he had kicked
the last piece of bee-hive so high that he could not reach
it any more, he stopped for an instant. He seemed try-
ing to ascertain whether the ten thousand bees which
were stinging him meant it. They did.

The mule turned loose. I never saw anything to
equal it. He was enveloped in a dense fog of earnest-
ness and bees, and filled with enthusiasm and stings.
The more he kicked, the higher he arose from the ground.
I may have been mistaken, for I was somewhat excited
and very much delighted, but that mule seemed to rise
as high as the tops of the pepper trees. The pepper
trees were twenty feet high. He would open and shut
himself like a frog swimming. Sometimes, when he
was in mid-air, he would look like he was flying, and I
would think for a moment he was about to become an
angel. Only for a moment. There are probably no
mule-angels.

When he had got up to the tops of the pepper trees,
I was called to breakfast. I told them I didn't want
any breakfast.

The mule continued to be busy.

When a mule -kicks himself clear of the earth, his
heels seldom reach higher than his back; that is, a
mule's fore-legs can reach forward, and his hind-legs
backward, until the mule becomes straightened out into
a line of mule parallel with the earth, and fifteen or
twenty feet therefrom. This mule's hind-legs, however,
were not only raised into a line with his back, but they
would come over until the bottom of the hoofs almost
touched his ears.

The mule proceeded as if he desired to hurry through.

I had no idea how many bees a hive would hold until
I saw that bee-hive emptied on that mule. They cov-
ered him so completely that I could not see any of him
but the glare of his eyes. I could see, from the expres-
sion of his eyes, that he didn't like the way things were
going.

The mule still went on in an absorbed kind of a way.

Not only was every bee of the disturbed hive on duty,
but I think the news had been conveyed to neighboring
hives that war had been declared. I could see bees flit-
ting to and fro. The mule was covered so deep with
bees that he looked like an exaggerated mule. The
hum of the bees, and their moving on eath other, com-
bined into a seething hiss.

A sweet calm and gentle peacefulness pervaded me.

When he had kicked for an hour, he began to fall
short of the tops of the pepper trees. He was settling
down closer to the earth. Numbers were telling on him
He looked distressed. He had always been used to
kicking against something, but found now that he was
striking the air. It was very exhausting.

1OO

THE CALIFORNIAN.

He finally got so he did not rise clear of the ground,
but continued to kick with both feet for half an hour,
next with first one foot and then the other for another
half an hour, then with his right foot only every few
minutes, the intervals growing longer and longer, until
he finally was still. His head drooped, his lip hung
lower and lower. The bees stung on. He looked as if
he thought that a mean, sneaking advantage had been
taken of him.

I retired from the scene. Early the next morning I
returned. The sun came slowly up from behind the
eastern hills. The light foliage of the pepper trees
trembled with his morning caress. His golden kiss fell
upon the opening roses. A bee could be seen flying
hither, another thither. The mule lay near the scene of
yesterday's struggle. Peace had come to him. He was
dead. Too much kicking against nothing.

LOCK MELONE.

A REMARKABLE REMINISCENCE.

Cases where persons have read their own obituaries
are not infrequent in history, but are considered none
the less remarkable. Lord Brougham the veteran Eng-
lish politician, Thiers the French statesman, Peabody
the philanthropist, and Proctor the astronomer, all thus
had the pleasure of reading the verdict of the press on
their supposed-to-be ended lives. The similar and more
recent case of Nellie Grant -Sartoris is fresh in public
memory. While General Grant was sailing through the
Golden Gate last year, in the course of conversation
with the reporters and others around him, the subject
of the false rumor of his daughter's death was broached,
and the emotions of Mrs. Sartoris upon reading her
would-be post mortem eulogies, were commented upon.
General John F. Miller remarked that he had twice read
obituaries of himself, having been reported dead on the
battle-field. This led General Grant to relate a similar
incident of Colonel Chamberlain, who has since been
Governor of Maine.

A propos of these reminiscences, is the case of a resi-
dent of Oakland, whose story, apart from the coinci-
dence, is full of interest, illustrating as it does the ups
and downs of American society. Charles Snyder, the
old gentleman who for a long time has been installed
as manager of the Oakland Free Reading-rooms, and
whose face is familiar to all frequenters of that newsy
resort, is now sixty-five years old. Over a quarter of a
century ago, under the stage name of Charles Ashton,
he was an opera singer and actor of wide-spread fame
in the Eastern and Southern States. His early musical
instructor was the then noted Signer Bazzioloe. He
made his dlbut with an elder sister of Adalina Patti,
at the Astor Place Opera House, in New York City, un-
der Maurice Strakosch. Snyder was henceforth recog-
nized as the leading tenor of the time, and had a mem-
orable run at the old Astor. This opera-house — which
was then the acknowledged resort of the upper-ten — has
since been transformed into the Clinton Library. After
this, Snyder sang one winter with Madame de Vries in
Havana, thirteen weeks with Jenny Lind in New Or-
leans, and was just finishing a farewell opera season in
Cincinnati with Madame Alboni when the incident re-
ferred to occurred. He was under a $100,000 engage-
ment to go to Europe with Madame Alboni, when he
was taken violently ill with congestion of the lungs.
For several days he sunk, until his life hung as it were
by a hair. At length his physicians gave him up, and

when on a certain evening an intimate friend of Snyder
called to learn of his condition, he was informed that
the case was hopeless — Snyder would die at midnight.
The gentleman was one of the editors of the Cincinnati
Nonpareil. True to his journalistic instincts, the editor
smothered his grief, went straightway to his office, and
wrote a half-column obituary of Snyder, recounting the
virtues of that eminent singer, who, he said, had died at
midnight. The article appeared in the next morning's
paper. And now comes the strange ddnodment. At
midnight, the time set for Snyder's demise, an unac-
countable change for the better occurred. The tide of
life ceased ebbing ; the sufferer began to breathe easier,
and before morning was pronounced out of immediate
danger. The next day he was able to peruse his own
obituary. Mr. Snyder recovered, and subsequently be-
came for a time an instructor in elocution in Washing-
ton. But he never again appeared before the footlights.
The ravages of the disease had ruined his fine voice,
and, with but brief intervals, he has not since been able
to speak much above a whisper.

W. B. TURNER.

"SUCH A FAMILYAH PLACE."

Last spring, I rented a house quite near the business
part of our town, and hired Henry — a colored man —
to saw some wood for me. When I went home to din-
ner, I stepped out into the yard where Henry was at
work, and asked him how he liked my new place.

' ' Oh, dis is a nice place," said Henry. ' ' Such a famil-
yah place, sah."

" Familiar place ! Oh, you have worked here often,
have you, Henry?"

"No sah; nevah worked heah afore in de world,
sah," answered Henry.

"How is it so familiar to you, then ; have you lived
near here?"

' ' No, sah ; my house is a long ways from heah, sah ; I
don't mean dat it's familyah to me, but familyah to de
town ; very familyah to de main street, sah."

"Oh, you mean convenient, Henry," said I.

1 ' Yes, sah ; conveent, sah, dat's it. I done mistook
de word, sah ; dat's all."

"Yes, it is a convenient place, Henry, and I think
I've got a pretty good garden, don't you? "

"Yes, sah; fine garden, and so much scrubbery,"
said Henry.

4 ' Scrubbery — what's that? "

"Oh, de currints, an1 goosebries, an' rasbries; an
look at dem plum trees, sah ; an' apple trees. Yes, sah,
you got de best scrubbery ob any one on dis street,
sah." C. L. C.

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THE CALIFORNIAN.

A WESTERN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

VOL. III.— FEBRUARY, 1881.— No. 14.

THE IRISH QUESTION PRACTICALLY CONSIDERED.

To deny that the ever harassing and chroni-
cally unsettled Irish question is beset with
enormous and discouraging difficulties would
be futile, and would be also a betrayal of
ignorance of past and current history. It has
baffled the investigations, the devices, and the
remedial measures of the most astute British
statesmen ; it has caused the overthrow of sev-
eral ministries ; it has afforded themes for lim-
itless eloquence to patriots and politicians of all
grades on both sides of St. George's Channel ;
it has given rise to several rebellions; it has
brought to the hideous ordeal of a high-treason
execution, or death in prison, the Fitzgeralds,
the Emmets, the Sheares, the Tones of their
times; it caused the "monster meetings" of
half -millions of people, under the leadership of
O'Connell, in the years '43 and '44, the subse-
quent formation of "The Young Ireland Party,"
which resulted in the exile to penal settlements
of William Smith O'Brien, Thomas Francis
Meagher, Mitchel, and the rest of the "patriots"
of that era ; the foundation of what is known as
"Fenianism," and to-day the question is appar-
ently as far from settlement as ever. But to
aver that it is incapable of solution would be
not only unmanly and cowardly, but it would
be an unworthy admission that the science of
politics is faulty and incomplete, and that there
are universal national wrongs for which there
is no remedy. Seeing that those evils were of
purely human creation, and cannot be attribut-
ed to Providence or nature — like earthquakes,
droughts, floods, cyclones, etc. — they must be
held to be correctable by human agency. Nor

is another Alexander necessary to cut this mod-
ern Gordian knot. To those who would solve
the Irish problem, it is only necessary to bring
to the task a fair knowledge of Ireland's story
from the time when her history began to be
known, a disinterested desire to undo and re-
form existing grievances, a recognition of natu-
ral rights that belong inherently to the people
of every country, and a determination to adjust
the question on the plan of natural and national
justice and equity. Before discussing the mo-
dus operandi to be pursued with the object
mentioned, it will be well, as a foundation for
argument, to state sufficient of the facts in Ire-
land's history to enable the reader to take an
enlightened and comprehensive view of the
situation. In the following necessarily brief
resume of events I shall confine myself almost
exclusively to those of a political character.
For all who require fuller information, there
are plenty of works to consult on Ireland's
hydrography, climate, geology, population at
different eras, agriculture, fisheries, mining,
manufactures, commerce, religion, and educa-
tion.

The early "history of the country is shrouded
in much obscurity, and little is known of it be-
fore the fourth century. There is a tradition
that Ireland was originally inhabited by the
Firbolgs and Danauns, who were subsequently
subdued by the Milesians, or Gaels. In the
fourth century the inhabitants were known as
Scoti, and they made descents upon the Roman
province of Britannia and Scotland, and even
crossed to what is now known as France.

102

THE CALIFORNIAN.

Early in the fifth century Christianity was in-
troduced, when St. Patrick became, and has
since been considered, the Apostle of the land.
Religion and its handmaidens, civilization and
learning, then made rapid progress, and in the
sixth century missionaries were sent forth from
the Irish monasteries to convert Great Britain
and the nations of northern Europe. Schools,
churches, and religious retreats were built in all
parts of Ireland. The people, at this period,
were divided into numerous clans, who owned
allegiance to four kings and to an ardrigh, or
monarch, to whom the central district, called
Meath, was allotted. The Irish were not long
permitted to enjoy the island in peace, and its
progress in civilization was seriously checked
by the incursions of the Scandinavians in the
eighth century. They for a time firmly estab-
lished themselves on the eastern coast, whence
they made predatory incursions into the in-
terior of the country. After having caused
trouble for about two centuries, they were
finally overthrown by the Irish at the battle of
Clontarf, near Dublin, in 1014, the victors be-
ing commanded by Brian Borumha, the "mon-
arch" of Ireland, as distinguished from the pro-
vincial "kings."

From the eighth to the twelfth century Irish
scholars enjoyed a high reputation for learning.
The arts were cultivated, and the famous round
towers — ruins of which still exist — are believed
to be remains of the architecture of this era.
Although the Popes have ostensibly claimed
temporal power only in that portion of Italy
known as "the States of the Church," yet at
least one of their Holinesses has certainly
helped to lose Ireland to the Irish. In 1155,
Pope Adrian IV. (the only Englishman who
ever wore the tiara; there never has been an
Irish Pope) took upon himself to authorize
Henry II. of England to take possession of
Ireland, on condition of paying an annual trib-
ute.

In pursuance of that iniquitous arrangement,
the first invasion by Englishmen on Irish soil
was made under Henry, in 1172. • He received
the homage of certain chiefs, and authorized
certain Norman adventurers to take possession
of the entire island in his behalf. In the course
of the following century, the thirteenth, these
Norman barons, favored by dissensions which
they had fomented among the Irish, had suc-
ceeded in firmly establishing their power; but
in the course of time their descendants identi-
fied themselves with the Irish, even to the ex-
tent of adopting their language. It then was
not long before the power of England became
limited to a few coast towns, and to the dis-
ricts around Dublin and Drogheda, known as

"The Pale." In 1541, Henry VIII. of England
received the title of King of Ireland from the
Anglo-Irish Parliament, then sitting in Dublin,
and several of the native princes acknowledged
him as their sovereign; but the majority of
them, and the bulk of the inhabitants, refused
to make such acknowledgment, or to have
their country made a dependency of England.

The attempts soon after made to change the
religion of the country from Catholicity to Prot-
estantism led to repeated revolts, and the lands
of Catholic chiefs were lawlessly seized and
parceled out among the English and Scotch set-
tlers. The so-called "Plantation of Ulster"—
the stronghold of Protestantism and Orange-
ism — took place in this manner under James I.
of England. In 1641 arose the Catholic rebel-
lion against the Protestants, to whom the real
estate of the former had been confiscated. But
that rebellion, after terrible bloodshed, was
crushed by Oliver Cromwell, who laid the isl-
and waste in 1649. At the Revolution the na-
tive Irish generally sided with James II., the
English and Scotch "colonists" with William
and Mary, and the war lasted until 1692, when
the Catholics were subdued. In order to thor-
oughly weaken and keep them down, rigorous
penal statutes were enacted against them ; and
the general dissatisfaction gave rise to the re-
bellions of the close of the last and the begin-
ning of the present century. It is needless to
describe here those barbarous laws, which were
subsequently piecemeal repealed, and what is
known as "Catholic Emancipation" was granted
in 1829. On the ist of January, 1801, the Irish
Parliament was legislated out of existence, and
the Act of Union was passed which politically
incorporated Ireland with England under the
title of the "United Kingdom."

Before closing the evidence or fundamental
facts in this controversy, and reaching the
arguments and conclusions, it may be stated
that the best historians and other authorities
on the subject admit that every quasi bargain
or contract made between the Irish and the
English was based on fraud, bribery, and cor-
ruption, and is therefore void. Eminent Catho-
lic and Protestant historical witnesses exhibit
a oneness and conclusiveness in their testimony
on this point, which are not only satisfying and
comforting to the presumably disinterested jury
of mankind who are to pronounce a verdict on
the question, but which ought to leave no doubt
as to the final adjudication of the case. The
fraud and force by which Cromwell and the
English kings mentioned confiscated the lands
of Catholics are too patent to need argument.
It is admitted by both sides — by these is meant
the Irish and English — that the act of legisla-

THE IRISH QUESTION PRACTICALLY CONSIDERED. 103

tive union which went into operation on the ist
of January, 1801, was brought about by the
grossest bribery and corruption. Lord Cas-
tlereagh, who represented England, was the
principal actor in that movement, and he be-
stowed titles and pensions right and left on
members of the Irish Parliament to induce
them to vote for the political union of the two
countries. Castlereagh was so filled with re-
morse at the frightful bribery which he had
employed that he committed suicide. To quote
on this point a high authority in the British
House of Peers, Lord Byron, after alluding to
"carotid artery cutting Castlereagh," declared
that he had "first cut his country's throat and
then his own." The peerages and sums of
money given by England for votes in the last
Irish Parliament to pass the Act of Union are
now as well known as last year's revenues of
both countries. Such are briefly what may be
termed the original facts with which the public
have to deal on the Irish question, and on
which to arrive at a correct decision on the
disputes between the two islands. But there
are some more recent facts bearing on the
question, which will appear further on.

There are several stand-points from which to
view the leading events narrated — the Irish
stand -point, the English stand -point, and the
stand -point of the whole civilized world, for
nowadays every civilized nation takes an inter-
est in every other civilized nation. Let us, in
order to arrive at a just conclusion on the ques-
tion, consider those several stand-points in^their
order.

At the first blush of the question it would ap-
pear that the position taken by the people of
Ireland is unassailable and unanswerable. They
have natural and national law and logic on their
side, and this, too, as propounded by the great-
est jurisprudents of the age on both sides of the
Atlantic. The primary law of nature and na-
tions gives the right to the inhabitants of every
country to rule it as they please. It is mainly
by going back to first principles that the Irish
controversy can be equitably settled. But be-
sides rescrting to these primary principles, the
Irish people deny, and have ever denied, that
they voluntarily gave up a rood of their soil to
the dominion of England. They hold as non-
binding on them, and as nugatory, every act by
which Cromwell and other English leaders
wrested the lands from the legal owners and be-
stowed them on parasites and favorites. It was
those arbitrary and unjust proceedings which
originated the present oppressive system of
landlordism in Ireland, and took the ownership
of the soil from prosperous millions and vested
it in a few favored individuals, who gave no

value for the land to the lawful owners. Of the
five and a half millions or so of the present pop-
ulation there are only a few thousand fee-simple
proprietors. The great bulk of the people, who
are the descendants of those who were unlaw-
fully deprived of the land, are compelled to pay
to those whose title originated in fraud the high-
est rent that can be exacted, and which keeps
the agricultural part of the population in a state
of chronic want, bordering on starvation. Ever
since this position of affairs has existed, and par-
ticularly since the island was devastated and
confiscated by Cromwell, the conduct of the
people has been a continuous protest against
the wrongs mentioned. This is evidenced by
the action of their leaders in and out of Parlia-
ment, and by the rebellions and the constant
dissatisfaction that has ever prevailed. The
standing protest against the English occupation
of Ireland was not made alone by the Catholic
leaders, but by such eminent Protestant patri-
ots as Burke, Grattan, Flood, Curran, Sheridan,
and others. It is true that the Protestant Irish,
for the most part, especially those of the north
— in Antrim and neighboring counties — give
powerful support to the British. This partly
arises from the fact that the Protestants, to
whom, or to whose ancestors, the penal laws re-
ferred to never applied, are better off in worldly
goods than their Catholic fellow-countrymen;
partly on account of religious animosity; and
partly, but mostly, by reason of that bane of
Ireland, Orangeism, which even causes trouble
in the United States, Canada, and Australia.
There are, however, a large number of the
Protestant population who side with the Cath-
olics in their national aspirations, and among
those who were exiled to penal settlements in
the contemptible fiasco — unworthy to be called
a rebellion — of 1848, there were nearly as many
Protestants as Catholics. In all the high treason
trials, and trials for that singular combination
of crime, "treason-felony," the wrongs and op-
pressions of the people were set before the ju-
ries in burnjng eloquence, but invariably with-
out effect, so far as procuring an acquittal was
concerned. As a specimen of the kind of lan-
guage that was so addressed to courts and ju-
ries on such occasions, the following brief ex-
tract from the speech of that veteran counsel,
Robert Holmes, on the trial of John Mitchel,
may serve as a sample :

"In the history of provincial servitude," observed Mr.
Holmes, "no instance can be found so striking, so af-
flicting, and so humiliating as Ireland of the influence
of moral causes in counteracting the physical aptitudes
of nature, and producing weakness and want, and igno-
rance and wretchedness, where all the outlines of crea-
tion seemed formed for power and happiness. For many

THE CALIFORNIAN.

a long century a deep and blighting gloom had covered
this fair and fertile land on which the benignant gifts of
Heaven seemed to have been poured forth in vain. A
light once shone across that gloom. Bright and glori-
ous was that light, but short and transient, serving but
to show the darkness which had gone before and the
deeper darkness that followed after. Yes, a light over-
shone that gloom. That light was extinguished by the
foulest means that ever fraud or injustice practiced ; and
now it seems that every attempt to rekindle that light is
to be crushed as sedition, and the sentence of depend-
ence and degradation pronounced against Ireland is to
be confirmed and made perpetual."

Such appeals, which were really meant as a
justification of revolution, or, at least, of very
radical measures to set matters right, were in-
variably vainly made. The penal laws debar-
red Catholics from sitting on juries, and, even
after that boon had been granted, juries were
invariably "packed" with men who were aliens
to the Catholics in faith and in feelings. There
should be no attempt or desire to antagonize
people on religious grounds. But, admitting
that the Irish Protestants, as a body, were and
are favorable to a continuation of English rule
in Ireland, their fewness of numbers — about a
million, as compared with about four and a half
millions of Catholics — should not be allowed to
prevail. In other words, a very small minority
should not be permitted to sway and override
the will of a very large majority.

It may be assumed, for no point has ever been
better proved and settled, that England would
never consent to part with Ireland by moral
suasion, or otherwise than by physical force.
This aspect of the question was thoroughly and
finally disposed of by the repeal agitation of
Daniel O'Connell in 1843-4, who was, to a fault,
a man of peace, and who denied that what he
called "the regeneration of Ireland" was worth
the cost of a single drop of human blood. With-
out discussing that proposition, it will be gene-
rally conceded that the "moral force" which he
brought to bear on the British Parliament could
not be exceeded or surpassed. He literally had
all but a fraction of the Irish people at his back
when they numbered about eight millions ; he
was indorsed, almost without an exception, by
the Catholic hierarchy and priesthood ; the
newspapers were enlisted in the cause ; each of
his principal out -door meetings was attended
by hundreds of thousands; he could send whom-
soever he pleased from the Irish constituencies
to the British Parliament, and he had a large fol-
lowing in England and on the European conti-
nent. At every session of the House of Com-
mons he introduced a bill for the repeal of the
act of legislative union between Ireland and
England, yet he never secured a fourth of
enough support to pass the measure. Nearly

all the English and Scotch members, number-
ing about five hundred, voted solidly against
the one hundred or so Irish members, and the
"moral force" and "repeal agitation" were
worse than useless, and would be so, if again
tried, to the end of the chapter. Still consider-
ing this subject from the Irish stand-point, the
question arises, Moral force or suasion being
useless, is, or would Ireland be, justified in re-
sorting to revolution to gain her independence?
There is abundance of authority to justify the
affirmative of that proposition. Victor Hugo,
not long ago, while attending the funeral of a
noted revolutionist, made a speech at the grave,
and, among other things, said, "Here, in the
presence of that great deliverer, Death, let us
name that other great deliverer, Revolution."
It certainly was revolution that overthrew in
France the effete Bourbons. It was revolution
which hurled the perjured Louis Napoleon from
the throne he had usurped, and gave the French
their present republic. It was revolution that
regenerated the early Roman and other em-
pires, and gave the people a purer government.
It was revolution that enabled the Saxons them-
selves, whose descendants now domineer over
Ireland, to shake off the yoke of the Romans,
who had overrun and despoiled the land, and
had long made Britain a Roman province. It
was revolution which gave the people of the
United States their glorious republic. And
other instances of the beneficent result of revo-
lution might be mentioned. With these exam-
ples before their eyes, the great mass of the
Irish people, viewing the wrongs which they
have endured from England for seven centu-
ries, claim the right to adopt the violent and
extreme remedy of revolution. This, as has
been shown, is no new claim, but the rebellions
have hitherto been abortive. The right of an
oppressed people to everthrow their oppressors
will scarcely be denied. It was acknowledged
in the case of the Poles, and more recently in
reference to the Cubans, who had the sympa-
thy of most Americans, and substantial aid
from many in the United States. But in dis-
cussing the Irish question, even from the Irish
stand -point, and admitting the right of every
people to govern their own country, it may be
asked, Could a revolution in Ireland be inaugu-
rated and prosecuted to a successful issue? If
not, would such an extreme proceeding be
wise? Can the grievances arising out of the ten-
ure of land system be rectified by legislation in
the British Parliament?

To answer the last question first, it is perfectly
safe to assume that if every agriculturist in Ire-
land were made a present of a farm, and given
a fee-simple title to it, Irish discontent against

THE IRISH QUESTION PRACTICALLY CONSIDERED. 105

England would be just as rife as ever. That
fact is perfectly well known to every student of
Irish history or who understands the Irish char-
acter. The London correspondent of a New
York journal knew what he was speaking about
when he recently telegraphed as follows :

" I fear it will be found, sooner or later, that the land
agitation is only the outward manifestation of a deep-
seated feeling that the proper place in which to make
laws for Ireland is College Green, Dublin, and this feel-
ing will remain in spite of all land measures that the
Government will introduce and Parliament pass."

The Marquis of Salisbury, no mean author-
ity, in his late speech at Woodstock, said :

' ' The land agitation is only a surface manifestation of
the old Home Rulers' spirit, which still thoroughly per-
meates what may be called the rebellious sections of Ire-
land, being the west, south, and south-west, and part of
the eastern coast. No amount of legislation, however
conciliatory, can wipe out the Nationalist feeling in Ire-
land."

The correspondent of another New York pa-
per recently cabled the following :

' ' They are blind who do not recognize the Irish move-
ment as a great revolutionary act, and the only one
which ever stood any chance ,of success. ... It took
an army to dig Captain Boycott's turnips, yet, despite
that army, Boycott had to leave his home with his fam-
ily forever. We read that the Coldstream Guards are
coming, yet one hundred thousand Saxon soldiers might
occupy the country without affecting the situation in the
slightest degree. Wholesale evictions might take place,
but the soldiers could not stand guard over every evicted
farmer, and the farms would be reoccupied after the sol-
diers left. The armies of the world could not compel
the payment of rent, or force men to work for obnox-
ious fellow-men, or keep shop-keepers from refusing to
sell. Coercive acts, a few months ago, would have been
effective, but now they would be useless. The people
have learned their power too well to be cowed."

These extracts are given because they^are
founded on a correct diagnosis of the situation
and of the Celtic character. It may, therefore,
be taken for granted that no land law which
the British Parliament could enact for Ireland
would have the effect of quieting the people or
rendering them a whit more tolerant of English
rule.

One of the questions propounded is, Could a
revolution in Ireland be prosecuted to a success-
ful issue? It would probably be a great mis-
take to answer that question in the negative on
the sole ground that no revolution by the Irish
against the English has succeeded. The cir-
cumstances of the case are now very different
from those existing at any previous rebellion.
The people are better armed and drilled; the
doctrines of Fenianism, which is a military rev-

olutionary organization, permeate the peasantry
from Cape Clear to the Giant's Causeway ; the
movement would have an almost world -wide
moral support, and very substantial assistance
from the millions of Irish in the United States.
Money, arms, and recruits would be extensively
sent from America, and it would be next to im-
possible to prevent their being landed on the
Irish coast. But, notwithstanding all this, an
insurrectionary war would probably last over as
many years in Ireland as the similar struggle
was prolonged in Cuba, and with doubtful re-
sult. The old adage, "England's difficulty is
Ireland's opportunity," would scarcely apply at
the present time, as Great Britain is not at war
with any country that could assist the Irish.
It was different in the rebellion of 1798, when
England was engaged in war with France, and
Bonaparte, not for any love he entertained for
the Irish, but to annoy and harass the English,
promised to send a large number of troops to
Ireland. His hands, however, were too full on
the Continent. He needed all his soldiers at
home, and the few he dispatched to Ireland
were of no avail.

For years past prominent Irish and Irish-
American papers have actually seriously advo-
cated that Ireland should become the thirty-
ninth State of our United States, but the propo-
sition is, perhaps, too extravagant for serious
consideration. That there is a bond of sincere
sympathy between Americans and Irishmen is
undeniable, and that bond is strengthened by
the fact that four of the signers of our Declara-
tion of Independence were born in the Green
Isle. Nevertheless, Congress would scarcely
be prepared to place Ireland in our column of
States, as, however desirable it might be for
the interest of our Republic to obtain a firm
foothold in Europe, and so to open additional
markets for our exports, there is no doubt that
Ireland could be gained only by an expensive
war with England. The result of such a con-
test could not be doubtful, as with the coopera-
tion of the Irish their island could unquestiona-
bly be won for the United States. Only a plebis-
cite^ taken in Ireland, could be held as a satis-
factory assent of the willingness of the people
of that country to have it annexed — if the word
"annexed" is a proper term to use in this con-
nection— to our republic. All writers on the
law of nations concede the fact that every peo-
ple may choose its own form of government,
and alter it at pleasure, and that that pleasure
may be expressed either by a plebiscite or in
the national legislature. Blackstone, in his
Commentaries on the Laws of England, says
that it would be quite in order for any member
of Parliament to move to repeal, alter, or amend

io6

THE CALIFORNIAN.

the Act of Succession to the Throne, and to sub-
stitute either another form of government, or
another reigning house, instead of the existing
one. He would, perhaps, be a bold member of
the British iHouse of Commons who would in-
troduce a bill declaring that the House of
Hanover, to which Queen Victoria belongs,
should cease to reign, and that some John
Smith and his heirs should reign instead. Yet
the legality of such a bill is beyond doubt, and
if it could be passed its constitutionality would
be unquestionable. Is there any valid reason
for not applying to Ireland the general rule
stated, and for affirming that she alone among
the countries of the earth should be denied the
right of choosing her own form of government?
Even England allows to each of her nearly
fifty colonies its own legislature, or law-making
power. Each of the Australian colonies has
its upper and lower houses, answering to our
Senate and House of Representatives. But
Ireland is denied a parliament or a legislature
of any description.

Viewing the question by the light of the facts
stated, it ceases to be a matter for wonderment
that all British remedial legislation for Ireland
has been unsatisfactory and unacceptable to
the inhabitants, and the like would be the case,
as stated, with respect to any land law which
might be passed. The reason is that no ap-
plied remedy has gone to the root of the dis-
ease. It is as though a physician were to treat
locally a complaint which requires constitu-
tional treatment. Thus, if a man were to have
a cutaneous eruption on his neck which denot-
ed a general blood disease, it would manifestly
be improper to endeavor to effect a -cure by
local applications alone. A constitutional reme-
dy must be adopted, a medicine given that will
eliminate the poison from all the blood. So it
is with Ireland. The land grievance is only a
single manifestation of general discontent which
has its root in the non-independence of the peo-
ple ; in other words, their being governed by a
foreign power. On a former occasion the great
complaint was the existence of a dominant
church in Ireland. That church was* disestab-
lished by an administration under the premier-
ship of Mr. Gladstone. No sooner was the
church-ghost exorcised, than the place became
possessed of other unquiet spirits, and when
these were laid at rest, then the demon of
landlordism erected its head, and so a line of
angels of darkness, as long as the procession of
spirits seen by Macbeth, appears to torment
the Irish people. They have got it into their
Jieads that nothing short of self-government
would be a panacea for their wrongs and griev-
ances, and nothing else will ever satisfy them.

They certainly have good grounds for the stand
which they take in this connection. While
they had their own Parliament, the island was
comparatively prosperous. Since the Act of
Union things have been going from bad to
worse; nor could it be otherwise. When the
Parliament assembled in College Green, Dub-
lin, its members were largely composed of the
wealthy landlords, who necessarily had to re-
main in Ireland for a great part of every year,
and so spend the money in the country whence
they drew their rents. When the Parliament
was abolished, and Irish legislation was trans-
ferred to England, those landlord members,
while still drawing their rents from Ireland,
spent the money . in England and on the con-
tinent, and to that extent impoverished Ireland.
For that grievance there is no remedy under
the sun except to retransfer the Parliament to
Dublin.

In whatever way the question may be viewed
from the Irish stand-point, one thing is certain
— namely, if the condition of the people were
not bettered by self-gpvernment, it certainly
could not be made worse than it is now or has
been since the Act of Union. There is no
surer sign of a country's decadence than a
steady decrease of her population. The last
four censuses exhibited the following figures : In
1841 the population was 8,175,124; 1851,6,552,-
385; 1861,5,792,055; 1871, 5,41 2,377, and since
then it is certain that the number of inhabitants
has much decreased. A fruitful cause of the
decrease is unquestionably emigration, and this
progressing on a large scale, and carried on by
a people who are naturally very attached to
fatherland, show the straits to which they are
driven to make a bare subsistence in their own
country. They are the worst fed, the worst
clothed, and the worst housed of any people in
the world, and this, too, in a land which is re-
markably productive, and which is calculated
to afford abundance for a much larger popula-
tion than has ever inhabited Ireland. Before
the Act of Union her commerce was large, her
manufactures — especially of linen — extensive,
her mines thrivingly worked, and her coast and
river fisheries prosecuted on an elaborate and
remunerative scale. Of late all these and other
industries have languished, and the country
is hardly worth living in. The landlords are
exacting and relentless, and the tenants are
crushed and desperate. Is it, then, any wonder
that there is a demand for a change— a demand
to be reverted to that self-government under
which the people were happy and contented?
Ireland, left to herself, can be not only a self-
supporting, but an exporting nation. Knowing
this, the celebrated Dean Swift advised his coun-

THE IRISH QUESTION PRACTICALLY CONSIDERED. 107

trymen to burn everything that was brought
from England, except her coal. His remark
was founded on the fact that it has ever been
England's policy to sell her goods in Ireland,
and to obtain the latter's money in return — a
policy which is ruinous to Ireland. The Celt
must have his "grievance" against Great Brit-
ain, even if he has to go without his dinner;
but, truth to say, he seldom has any difficulty
to find a just cause of complaint.

Of course it is only fair to present the question
from the English stand -point. England's title
to Ireland is claimed under the usurpation of
the island by Henry II., by permission of Pope
Adrian IV., although that Pontiff had no title
in the soil to pass or convey to another. Sec-
ondly, by the Anglo -Irish Parliament, in 1541,
acknowledging Henry VIII. King of Ireland;
and, thirdly, by the conquest of the island by
Oliver Cromwell in 1649. It is deemed unne-
cessary here to argue at length on the validity
of the title so set up. Suffice it to say that such
validity of title, for reasons already mentioned,
is denied in toto by the Irish people. But, even
for the sake of argument, admitting the genu-
ineness of the title so derived, it is no answer
to the broad principle stated, and allowed by
all civilized nations, that the inhabitants of every
country, on the axiom that "all power is from
the people," have a right to change their rulers
and form of government whenever and as often
as they please. England herself acted on that
principle when she was a Roman colony or
province, by driving the Romans out of the
place and establishing her own system of gov-
ernment. The proverbial goose and gander
sauce is as palatable now as ever. But while
the English press prate of "the conquest of Ire-
land" as a justification for the British oppres-
sion of that island, it would be treating with in-
justice the common sense and acumen of Eng-
lish statesmen to suppose that they resist the
constant demand of the Irish for self-govern-
ment on the ground that the title mentioned is
valid. Nothing of the kind. England holds
Ireland for other reasons : First, to squeeze all
the wealth she can out of the island, which cer-
tainly is not much at present, whatever it was
formerly. Secondly, because if Ireland were
given autonomy she might, on account of old
sores and grievances, be a continual source of
annoyance and peril to Great Britain. Thirdly,
if England were at war with another power, she
could not afford to have the enemy allowed a
foothold in Ireland, and so make an invasion
by way of Wales or Scotland. This, in the
opinion of British statesmen, would be a perpet-
ual menace. And, lastly, continental statesmen
would probably be constantly intriguing against

England with the Irish Government in matters
of commerce and otherwise. Those reasons are
forcible from the English stand -point, but are
destitute of logic when put forth as arguments
for depriving another people of autonomy. They
simply amount to a plea that Ireland was made
for the English, not for the Irish, which the lat-
ter respectfully decline to admit. British states-
men aver that Ireland is too near to England to
be allowed her independence. She was equally
near when she had her own Parliament up to
eighty years ago. She is not so near England
as France is. The United States and Canada
have no quarrels on account of their nearness to
one another. Only an imaginary line separates
Spain and Portugal, and two or more of most of
the European and Asiatic continental powers lie
in near proximity to each other. Without elab-
orating the reasons put forth by British states-
men for retaining Ireland in subjection, every
intelligent reader can form an opinion for him-
self on that aspect of the question. It really re-
solves itself into this : Should one country be
kept in a state of serfdom in order to gratify the
interests and convenience, and to dispel the
fears and suspicions, of another country?

No friend of Ireland would counsel a revolu-
tion in that country to throw off the British yoke
unless the movement were backed by the assist-'
ance of a foreign power. But until the present
so-called "land agitation" got to a considerable
heat, the idea was almost universal that only
by revolution could Ireland secure autonomy.
O'Connell himself, with all his professions of a
"peace policy," was in the habit, in his speeches,
of quoting Byron's lines :

"Hereditary bondmen ! know ye not

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ?

By their right arms the conquest must be wrought," etc.

He knew that the union of Ireland and England,
somewhat akin to that of the Siamese twins, was,
to his countrymen, as compulsory as it was re-
volting. But the quasi "land agitation," while
worthless for what it professes to be, bids fair
to make Ireland too costly and troublesome for
England to hold. While it would be unadvisa-
ble to risk the result of a revolution, yet, for the
reasons stated, that result could not be predi-
cated. But, without taking chances in the mat-
ter, it is tolerably clear that if the Irish keep up
a peaceful opposition to the landlords, refuse to
pay rent, decline to sell supplies to all who will
not join their movement, and so forth, they may
eventually, and without bloodshed, exhaust the
English treasury and power in Ireland, and
abolish English rule in that country. This is,
perhaps, the only satisfactory solution of a ques-
tion which is the greatest political conundrum
of the age. R. E. DESMOND.

io8

THE CALIFORNIAN.

THE REPUBLIC OF ANDORRA.

In the upper Pyrenees, between France and
Spain, is an ancient republic of which but little
is known, for it is seldom visited, and its peo-
ple have never occupied any important place in
history. Its government, however, has existed,
without change, for more than eleven hundred
years, a monument of independence from the
time of Charlemagne, and remains to-day the
oldest civilized government in the world.

The Republic of Andorra lies between the
Pyrenees of the Department of the Aridge and
the Pyrenees of Catalonia, and is approached
only over mountains, whose tops, even in mid-
summer, are covered with snow.

I twice visited this interesting country — once
by making the ascent of the mountains from
the French side of the frontier, by way of the
valley of the Aridge. As I passed through
this beautiful valley I encountered a most de-
lightful landscape. Fresh banks, groves, culti-
vated fields, and flocks and herds, were spread
out before me, and the background, as it grad-
ually receded toward the horizon, displayed a
broad undulating belt of green and gently
sloping hills. But what a contrast followed!
In an hour's time this charming prospect pass-
ed out of sight, and I beheld only the severest
aspect of the mountains, with their peaks cov-
ered with snow. The great gorge of the Ra-
made opened before me like a vast tomb of
granite. My eyes sought involuntarily to meas-
ure the distance over the wild and barren re-
gion in front, but in vain, for the pathway was
crooked, and the mountain walls were high and
almost perpendicular — so high that the sun only
at meridian could possibly reach me. Down in
the bottom ran the Aridge ; all about was soli-
tude and desolation.

I pursued my lonely way up by the side of
this deep ravine, along the ledges of crumbling
rocks or the shelving sides of the precipice,
until at last the giant walls of the mountain be-
gan to widen, and the gulf below to look less
hideous under a broader expanse of blue sky.
High above me, on an eminence that seemed
to divide the abyss of the Ramade, rose the
ruins of an old castle — the Chateau of Miglos —
an ancient and feudal nest, long since deserted,
but still standing with its towers and battle-
ments as if to guard the passage of the mount-
ains, as no doubt it did in its day. Ascending
to the top of the ridge beyond, I witnessed an-

other change; life reappeared, and the little
bourg of Vic-de-Sos lay before me. The
mountains were here spread out in the form
of a semi-circle, and presented at the bottom
of the perspective a triple range of summits.
In the valley below were chimneys and forges,
and men at their work ; culture and industry
enlivened the scene. Not far distant from
where I stood were some Druidical monuments
and towers of the dark ages ; and side by side
with these relics of barbarism were clustered
the grottoes of the Albinos, fortified asylums of
that unfortunate and proscribed race. The Al-
binos, like the gypsies of the Basque provinces,
and some other races of Navarre and Catalonia,
are placed outside the protection of the law.
They are said to have sprung from negro fathers
and white mothers. Their complexion is of a
dirty white, tinged with red, the latter color
most noticeable about their eyes and finger-
nails. They still preserve their short and crispy
curls, and their features and habits in general
indicate the race from which they are descend-
ed. Ex nigrd stirpe albus homo.

Several little streams came foaming down
through the crevices of the mountain, and, pass-
ing through the valley, blended their murmurs
with the melody of grazing herds — native music
in a foreign land. As I turned to one side I
beheld the Montcal and Rancid, and on the
other was the Col de Sem. A Druidical monu-
ment elevated itself upon a solitary summit,
and near by I could distinguish a table of gran-
ite resting upon three small blocks, as upon
mutilated feet, between which the distant sky
was visible. This roughly worked table of stone
still presented in the center of its surface the
circular cavity which in former times received
the blood of human victims. Bearing toward
my right was the Col de Sherz, but towering
above all were the dreary ice-fields of the White
Pyrenees, far above the habitations of living
men; and immediately in front was the pas-
sage that was to conduct me up into the mount-
ain regions of Andorra. I went down into
the valley on to the threshold of Vic-de-Sos,
the very center of a great amphitheater, from
which point I followed a winding pathway up to
the Col de Sem, where, from a hight of over
two hundred feet, falls a beautiful cascade per-
pendicularly over great rocks, surrounded by a
forest of stunted fir trees. On the opposite side

THE REPUBLIC OF ANDORRA.

109

of Vic-de-Sos is an ancient camp of Charle-
magne, where still remain scattered upon a
mound the debris of a large fort. Continuing
my toilsome journey, I found hidden away upon
the slopes, and in the gorges of the mountains,
a number of little hamlets, and among them
the villages of Sue d' Oilier and Goulier, the
latter always half buried with snow or lost in
banks of fog.

The inhabitants of the villages whom I en-
countered, whether farmers, muleteers, or min-
ers, differed noticeably in their habits and cus-
toms. One commune was noted for its habits
of order, sobriety, and economy, while in an-
other, not a league away, the people were ex-
tremely frivolous and indolent. The inhabit-
ants of Sem do not know how to read, but they
are all adepts in the art of chicanery. The
miners of Goulier are hard workers, and noted
in all the surrounding country for their athletic
powers and prodigious appetites. Their meals
were simply enormous, enough to recall the re-
pasts of Apicius. In drawing nearer to the
borders of the Republic, I crossed the summits
of mountains where snow obstructs the passage
for at least six months in the year. On the
frontier of Andorra I was arrested by some-
thing more than mere curiosity to reflect that
I stood before a republic that dates from the
time of Charlemagne, whose public records
bear the inscription, "In the eleven hundred
and second year of the Republic," and that
maintains a government which all its neighbors
respect, and which above all respects itself.

The Andorrese as a people are still faithful
to the rustic manners, institutions, and usages
of their ancestors. The stability which reigns
in family life has preserved to each valley and
to each village its own peculiar characteristics.
The clans remain side by side, as in days of
yore, and the friction of centuries has not suc-
ceeded in effacing the little differences that tra-
dition says have always distinguished them.
Coming down from one generation to another,
fathers have transmitted to their children the
same callings, the same ideas, and the same
manner of living.

The existence of the Republic of Andorra as
an independent State dates from the year 778,
the time of Charlemagne's first expedition
against the Moors, when he made the passage of
the Pyrenees by way of Andorra, a region which
the Saracens believed to be inaccessible to an
invading army. The Andorrese, a warlike race,
were the first champions against the Moors, and
had successfully repulsed their repeated attacks.
They now joined the forces of the great Empe-
ror, and conducted them through the defiles of
the mountains down on to the plains of Cata-

lonia. Charlemagne defeated the Moors in the
Valley of Carol, to which he gave his name,
but was routed, and a portion of his army de-
stroyed, as he was returning to France (accord-
ing to the Annales of Eginhard) through the
Pass of Roncesvalles. In the first book of Par-
adise Lost) the discomforture of Charlemagne
is, by a geographical error of Milton, located at
Fontarabia :

"Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore,
When Charlemain, with all his peerage, fell
By Fontarabia."

To recompense the inhabitants of Andorra
for their services, Charlemagne made them in-
dependent, and left them to be governed by
their own laws. He authorized them to select
a Protector, which they did in the person of the
Count of Foix, and the arms of the Republic
are still quartered with those of the Counts of
Foix. There were certain rights reserved, how-
ever, which still exist, and consist principally
of a tribute and the retention of a part of the
judiciary power. The tithes of the six parishes
were granted to the See of Urgel.

In the year 801, Louis le Debonnaire, King
of Aquitaine, granted the Andorrese a fresh
charter, expressed to be in right of his father,
Charlemagne, for their fidelity to the Emperor
and the support they had rendered the Chris-
tian cause againt the Moors. The original man-
uscript of this charter is still preserved among
the archives of the Republic. This was the year
of the second expedition against the Moors to
the south of the Pyrenees, which was under the
immediate command of the King, whose object,
says Theganus, was to expel Zadun, the Moor-
ish chief of Barcelona. Louis organized a more
perfect administration of government for the
Andorrese, which exists to-day in the same
form; and the names, divisions, and boundaries
are the same, presenting the remarkable phe-
nomenon of a little country preserving its inde-
pendence, with the same institutions, for eleven
centuries, in the midst of revolutions which have
so often changed the forms of government of
the two great neighboring States. The apostles
of revolution have been listened to with effect
in one period or another in most of the civilized
countries of the world, but their words have
never penetrated the walls that surround the
valleys of this ancient and model republic.
Louis subsequently surrendered up to the peo-
ple some of the rights that Charlemagne had
reserved. Among other things, it was stipu-
lated that one -half of the tithes of the six par-
ishes should belong to the Bishop of Urgel, and
the other half, the city of Andorra excepted, to
the chapter of the cathedral church which the

THE CALIFORNIAN.

Moors had destroyed. The half from the city
of Andorra was given to one of the principal in-
habitants, as a recompense for the services he
had rendered the French arms, and that portion
is still called droit carlomngien.

In the year 860, Charles the Bold issued a
diploma wrongfully assigning the sovereignty of
Andorra, which Charlemagne had vested in the
inhabitants, to -the Bishops of Urgel. But this
the Andorrese refused to recognize, whereupon
commenced the four hundred years' war of in-
dependence, between the Republic as an inde-
pendent and lawful sovereign, the Bishops of
Urgel as pretenders, and the Counts of Foix
nominally as protectors. The Counts, like
nearly all the protectors and powerful families
of that age, merely ravaged the country they
professed to befriend. In 1278, the Andorrese
succeeded in a final pacification, under which
the Bishops and Counts receded from the con-
test, and, in course of time, their authority set-
tled into a sort of co-protectorate. The Counts
of Foix became absorbed in the house of Bdarn,
which, in its turn, became absorbed in that of
Bourbon, and the protectorate at length attach-
ed to the de facto French Government. The
President of the French Republic and the
Bishop of Urgel are now the joint protectors of
Andorra, under the charter of 801 and the con-
vention of 1278.

The manner in which the de facto govern-
ment of France obtained the protectorate is re-
lated as one of the legends of Andorra. The
Syndic of the Republic in the time of the first
Napoleon was a guest of the Emperor at Fon-
tainebleau. He went there in his official dress,
a long black coat, a cocke^J hat, and leather
breeches. Napoleon had commanded that he
be received with all the splendor that the pal-
ace and court could display. The magnificence
of the imperial household, the elegant costumes
of the people, and the familiar and fascinating
ways of the ladies of the court, greatly bewil-
dered him as he thought of his own people and
their humble dwellings in Andorra. The im-
perial host enjoyed the embarrassment of the
Syndic immensely, for he knew that he would
gain the small victory upon which he was re-
solved. The business which had brought the
Syndic to the French capital was to amend the
anomalous relations between France and An-
dorra caused by the fall of the Bourbons, who
had been the hereditary co-protectors, and also
to relieve some of the privations of his country-
men by concluding a commercial treaty. He
never questioned that the heir of Louis XVI.,
who was the heir of the Counts of Foix, was
the only French protector of the commonwealth.
But, under the influences of the court, the au-

stere devotee of republican institutions halted,
doubted, and wavered, and the imperial bland-
ishments at length triumphed. The fidelity of
the Syndic to the memory of the extinguished
Counts of Foix melted away in the seductive
atmosphere of the court, and he signed a treaty
with the Emperor, which was afterward ratified
by the Republic for the sake of the commercial
advantages, which were a counterpart of the
Andorrese acknowledging the de facto govern-
ment of France as co- protector with the Bish-
ops of Urgel.

The Andorrese are very jealous of any en-
croachment upon their religious or political
rights, as well as of any violation of their terri-
tory. In 1794, General Shabert was ordered
by the French Government to pass his troops
through Andorra to attack Urgel, but the peo-
ple objected, and the order was revoked.

The territory of the Republic has an area
of about thirty miles in length by twenty in
breadth, and contains three beautiful and fer-
tile valleys, one of which runs parallel to the
great range of the Pyrenees, and the other two
lay almost at right angles to it. The govern-
ment of Andorra partakes of a political, mili-
tary, judicial, and commercial character. The
charter of 80 1 forms the six parishes of An-
dorra, San Julia, Massana, Canillo, Encamp,
and Ordino into an independent State, under
the title of "Respublica Handorrensis? subject
to the right of tithe previously given to the See
of Urgel. Louis Ddbonnaire, in the name of
his father, Charlemagne, traces out for the An-
dorrese some general principles of government,
and advises them, among other things, to es-
tablish an equality of civil rights, to make the
country an asylum for foreign political offend-
ers who might take refuge in its territory, and
urges them to foster agriculture and improve
the character of their dwellings.

Each of the six departments has its own leg-
islature, which is composed of those land-hold-
ers who can show a descent from ancestors
who possessed the hereditary right of legisla-
tion. These bodies severally elect two Con-
suls, who form the executive of each division,
and serve for one year. The General Council
of the Republic is composed of twenty -four
delegates, four being sent by each of the local
legislatures, and consists of the two Consuls for
the current year and the two last ex-Consuls in
each division. The General Council elects a
Syndic and a Deputy Syndic, who constitute
the executive authority of the Republic. All
citizens from sixteen to sixty years of age are
armed, and the military organization and drill
of each parish are under the direction of a cap-
tain, while the chief judiciary authority of the

THE REPUBLIC OF ANDORRA.

State is the head of the whole army. There
are no salaries or emoluments connected with
the government; all citizens of the Republic
are supposed to be patriotic and brave, and
willing to serve their country without pay.
Here is a complete administrative organization
where no salaries are given, and, proportion-
ately speaking, a large military establishment
without a dollar of taxation.

The feudal theory of nobility exists among
the land-owners, and possession of land is the
Andorrese idea of freedom. Andorrese nobles,
whose long descent would dwarf the genealogi-
cal tree of an Arundel, or a Percy, and who
derive their grants of land from the Emperor
Charlemagne, may be found grooming their own
horses or shearing their own sheep. The in-
tellect of these hardy mountaineers is mostly
ruled by physical strength. Education and lux-
ury are unknown among them. The people are
noted, however, for their high public virtue and
private charity. So benevolent are they that
in winter he who has goods shares them with
the poorest around him.

The General Council of the Republic meet
five times a year at the city of Andorra to de-
liberate upon public affairs, though but few
laws are ever passed. Certain days of religious
festivals are chosen for the meeting of the Coun-
cil; these are Christmas, Easter, Whitsuntide,
All Saints' Day, and Saint Andrew's. The
twenty -four deputies arrive at the place of
meeting on horseback, and each puts up his
own horse in one of the twenty -four stalls of
the national stables. The first duty of a con-
sul is to attend divine service in the little
chapel attached to the capitol building. He
then proceeds to the robing -room, where the
peasant dress is changed for a more stately
costume, consisting of a long, black, straight-
collared coat, with two rows of very large but-
tons, leather knee-breeches, and a turn-up black
hat. The building in which the Council meet
is called the "Palace," and is constructed of
rough granite blocks. The hall where the de-
liberations are held is on the second floor. To
the right and left, on entering, are benches for
the Consuls, and at the upper end of the room
a chair for the Syndic, wfyo acts as the Presi-
dent of the assembly. In the Council Cham-
ber is a great strong-box, which contains the
archives of the nation. The State records are
preserved with such religious care that but few
persons have ever been allowed to see them.
The cabinet which contains these sacred docu-
ments is fastened with six locks, having each a
different key. The locks correspond to the six
different divisions of the State whose records
are deposited there. The executive of each

parish is intrusted with the key to a single
lock, and as the six locks are on the outer
door, no part of the box can be opened ex-
cept in the presence of the six heads of the
six departments, who are required to be pres-
ent at the meeting of the Council.

The faculty of reading is almost exclusively
confined to the twenty-four Consuls. I believe
that most of the Andorrese nobles sign their
names by making a cross. Any land -owner
who inherits the right to be a legislator, and
can read the Andorrese records, and correspond
with the French and Spanish officials on either
frontier, may aspire to govern the Republic.
Not a book of any kind exists in the Andorran
tongue, though the language is not difficult to
acquire, having only a dialectic difference from
the Catalan. A late Syndic had heard of North
America, but he believed that all Americans
were copper -colored, and that England was a
colony of France. The ignorance and real sim-
plicity of the people reminds one of the amus-
ing fable of Wieland related in his Geschichte
der Abderiten, illustrative of the extreme sim-
plicity of the Abderitans. The story of Wie-
land, even within the last quarter of a century,
would have applied to the Andorrese, for they
have taken more than one traveler to be out of
his senses because his sayings were beyond
their comprehension.

The title of "Most Illustrious" is given to
the members of the General Council by the
Andorrese, but in official reports and commu-
nications with foreigners, the Syndic and two
criminal judges receive only the title of "Illus-
trious." These latter carry a sword as a dis-
tinctive mark of the supreme authority of the
law. The civil or inferior judges are called
"Honorable." In the General Council there
are three forms of deliberation, according to
the importance of the business, comprising:
First, one member from each parish ; second,
two members from each parish, and third, all
the members of the General Council as a com-
mittee of the whole house.

The judiciary system consists of one judge
appointed by France for life, who is generally
a magistrate from the Department of the Ari-
e"ge, and another appointed by the Bishop of
Urgel, who must be a subject of the Republic,
and who holds office for three years. These
judges exercise criminal authority only, while
the civil power is vested in two inferior judges,
selec^d by the criminal judges from a list of
six presented by the Syndic. There is no trial
by jury, and no written law. Equity and cus-
tom alone determine the decisions of the courts.
The sentence of the court, when proclaimed by
the General Council, is irrevocable, and must be

112

THE CALIFORNIA^.

carried into execution within twenty-four hours.
A court of appeal exists only on the civil side.
Its chief, appointed by France and the Bishop
of Urgel, sits from time to time to review the
decisions of the two inferior judges.

Neither the French revolutionary law of in-
heritance, nor the partition of property as es-
tablished in Spain, have as yet influenced the
character of Andorrese legislation. The law of
primogeniture still prevails as of old. Some of
the mountain races in both France and Spain
attempted to retain this right of having their
estates descend only to the eldest son, but, be-
ing amenable to the law of their respective
countries, they were obliged to adopt the expe-
dient of family compacts.

The patricians of Andorra, who are the lesser
land-owners, do not appreciably differ from the
common laborers, and are not generally admit-
ted to the rank of senator. The laborers in the
valleys live in poorly constructed huts, and
sleep on the skins of bears or izards. The
mountain shepherds, in yet worse hovels, dwell
in winter in constant fear of avalanches and
wolves. While the habitations of the people
are poor, their churches show that they bestow
considerable upon their religion in aid of archi-
tecture. The interior of the church at Canillo
is an example of this, for it is spacious and in
good style, with some carving and decoration.

Field sports are in favor with the Andorrese.
They shoot partridges and pheasants in sum-
mer, and bears and wolves in autumn and win-
ter. Wolves are hunted on horeback in the
valleys and on the lower ridges, but the bear
and izard choose the cover of the steep mount-
ain-sides, and the hunt is consequently con-
ducted with guns and dogs, and is sometimes
attended with both hardship and danger. Bears
are now becoming scarce, except on the highest
mountains. In severe seasons both bears and
izards descend into the lower regions, and are
easily taken. Bear's meat, even after the fa-
tigue of a hard day's shooting, is strong and
tough, but the natives of the country, on their
return at night, feast upon it in the lurid light
of their chimney -fires with the sumptuousness
of a Cyclops.

In religion the inhabitants of Andorra are
Catholic. Religion is there associated with
every circumstance of business or pleasure. It
opens legislation and initiates dancing, the lat-
ter being a recreation of which the people are
very fond. The chief dance is called the Val
d'Andorre, and is awkward, but peculiar to the
country. It is said to have been in vogue as
long ago as the time of Charlemagne. Relig-
ious fetes are a national pastime, and the Val
d'Andorre may be witnessed on any Saint's Day

sacred in the Andorrese calendar. The anni-
versary opens with a short mass, celebrated at
the nearest chapel, and the remainder of the
day is given up to dancing. But a Saint's Day
is not always necessary, for a piece of green-
sward, a clear moonlight, and the balmy air of
a midsummer night are generally sufficient in-
citements. The women are robust and well
proportioned. They are French in manner and
action, but Spanish in physiognomy and com-
plexion. Their ways are frank and somewhat
attractive, but they are under a certain degree
of subjection, for every wife regards her hus-
band as her master.

The Republic has no roads. Even the high-
way leading to the capital must be traversed by
men and horses sure of foot. Notwithstanding
this, the country at large is almost unequaled
for the variety of its productions, as well as for
the beauty of its scenery. The land is divided
between tillage and flocks and herds, the high-
lands being pastoral, and the lowlands arable.
Horses, sheep, and pigs are the principal ani-
mal productions of the country. There are also
goats and fowls, but few cows or oxen. The
valleys are rich, and produce fine crops of
wheat, barley, rye, and corn. Wheat bread is
used in the cabins of the land-owners, and rye
in the huts of the peasantry. Grapes, figs, dates,
and olives grow on the warmer hill-sides in the
neighborhood of Auvina, and cocoa-nut trees in
the western communes. The flocks, in appear-
ance, are hardly to be surpassed, and the mut-
ton is equal to the finest in the world. Iron
mines are plentiful, but coal is altogether want-
ing. There is an abundance of wood in the
mountains. This is public property, and is fur-
nished to the inhabitants gratuitously, but sold
by the parishes to the proprietors of forges.
The manufacture of iron is exceedingly crude,
and the forges are the most primitive that I
have ever seen. The cloth manufactured there
is the coarsest that could possibly be made.
To carry their produce to market, in the ab-
sence of roads, the people have contrived large
quadrangular baskets, formed of strips of wood,
which they fasten to the backs of horses. These
frequently obstruct the narrow highway, but the
traveler must of course give way. The State re-
ceives a small income from imports and pastur-
age, out of which the Syndic pays $190 tribute
each to France and the Bishop of Urgel, the
chief expense of the Republic.

On taking my departure from Andorra and
its hospitable people, I visited Auvina, near the
Spanish frontier, on the road to Urgel. At Au-
vina is a grand cascade and a succession of
beautiful waterfalls, the finest in the Pyrenees.
There is an interesting legend connected with

A DAY ON A GUANO ISLAND.

Auvina, which the Andorrese believe to be au-
thentic. I give it in substance as it has been
before related :

In the middle ages the Bishops of Urgel had
arrogated to themselves a supremacy over the
Republic. These claims of ecclesiastical as-
cendency were in collision with the spirit of
Andorrese independence. The exactions of Ur-
gel became more and more intolerable. Mean-
while a lady, called, from her dress and appear-
ance, the White Lady, became possessed, in
right of her father, of a tower on the hights
above the Cascade of Auvina, which command-
ed the road leading from Urgel to San Julia.
Certain magical powers were attributed to the
owners of this ancient building, and the White
Lady was accordingly supposed to be skilled in
the black art. The tower had been originally
built as a bulwark against the irruptions of the
feudal prelates of Urgel. On this account, as
well as upon account of the dark gifts with
which it was thought to be endowed, the lords
of the tower of Auvina were popularly regarded
as the guardians of the Republic.

The White Lady had more than once forbid-
den the entrance of the Bishop into Andorra.
He, nevertheless, came and went, until one
night, on his return toward Urgel, the White
Lady stood before him in the moonlit glade be-
side the Falls of Auvina, and beckoned him
away from his attendants. He followed her,
spell-bound and alone, to the edge of the woods.
At length he returned, with a greatly altered
countenance, and refused to divulge what he
had seen or heard. For a long time he vent-
ured not again to pass the Cascade of Auvina.
His priests undertook missions in his stead,

and each time, at whatever hour of the day or
evening they might pass, the White Lady stood
before their path. At length, however, she was
more rarely seen, and the Prelate of Urgel
dared once more to cross the threshold of An-
dorra. They were no longer troublesome times,
and he undertook the journey unattended. He
was never again seen, nor did the White Lady
again visit the cascade or inhabit the tower.
From this time forward a solitary wolf infested
that part of Andorra, and devoured all the sheep
that came within its reach. The simultaneous
disappearance of the enchantress and the Bish-
op gave a mystical character to the place. The
Andorrese went forth from time to time to shoot
the depredator on their flocks, but in vain. At
last the Syndic himself went in search of him,
and succeeded in killing the marauder. But
ever afterward, night after night, he became
subject to frightful dreams and visions, which
lasted while the sun was down. His health
soon began to fail, but the visions did not in-
termit. As it became evident that his hours
were numbered, the White Lady appeared be-
fore him. His attendants implored the exer-
cise of her magic to effect the Syndic's cure.

"I could deliver the Republic," said she, "but
I could not deliver thee from the power of the
Bishop. The wolf thou killedst was even he."

The Syndic died, and the White Lady was
never again seen* From that time the Bishops
of Urgel never attempted to invade the rights
of the Republic. The moral, that prelates
should not covet their neighbor's rights, is re-
membered in the land of Andorra, however
much it may be forgotten at Urgel.

EDWARD KIRKPATRICK.

A DAY ON A GUANO ISLAND.

Shortly after sunrise the swift little brig Nau-
tilus left the harbor of Papeete, Tahiti, bound
for San Francisco. Usually passengers taking
this trip do not see land again from the time the
mountain peaks of Tahiti are lost to view until
they sight the Farallones, thirty miles from San
Francisco. But the three passengers on board
the Nautilus (myself one of the number) were
fortunate in being on a vessel which, taking a
more westerly course than usual,' was to stop at
the Guano Islands of the South Pacific to leave
a mail, and, remaining there for a few hours, re-
ceive one in return, destined for California and
England. We were favored with a good breeze,

and in a week from the day we left Papeete,
shortly after sunrise, we anchored off the isl-
ands about a mile and a half from shore.

There is quite a large group of these islands,
but the principal ones are Vostok, Flint, and
Caroline Islands. The first named, Vostok, is
the smallest, being only half a mile in width.
The next, Flint Island, is about three miles
long and three quarters of a mile wide. It is
in 10° 26' south latitude and 150° 48' west lon-
gitude, and extends in a north-easterly and
south-westerly direction. Nearly five-sixths of
the island is covered with trees, the rest being
coral beach and reef. The trees are from sixty

THE CALIFORNIAN.

to one hundred feet high, and the land is about
twelve feet above the level of the sea. For the
past three years or more, the English company
engaged in shipping guano from these islands
have made Flint Island their headquarters;
but at the time we visited them their opera-
tions were being carried on at Caroline Island,
which is much larger than the others, being
seven miles and a half long, and one mile and
a half wide, lying north and south. It is in
9° 56' south latitude and 150° 6' west longitude.
There is a large lagoon near the center of the
island, surrounded by forty small islets, and,
indeed, the whole island seems made up of
many small ones ; so that when the tide is low
one can go from one to another on the reef,
which forms the connecting chain that binds
them together. Looking at the islands from
the deck of the ship we could see a long line of
breakers dashing over the reef, and sending the
spray continuously in the air; so that a snowy
mist seemed to conceal the land, save an occa-
sional glimpse of bright green foliage, above
which the cocoa-palms reared their heads, ever
a distinguishing feature of tropical scenery.

Our vessel had hoisted signals, which were
answered from shore, and in an hour from the
time we had come to anchor a boat, containing
two Europeans and four native oarsmen, came
alongside the ship. On coming on board the
gentlemen were introduced as, Mr. Arundel, the
English agent of the Guano Company, and
his friend, Mr. Robinson, who was stopping at
the islands, for a few months, for the benefit of
his health. After receiving their letters and
papers, and hearing the news from the outside
world, from which they seemed to be so isolat-
ed, they left for the shore again to prepare their
return mail. Before leaving, however, they ex-
tended to us a cordial invitation to return with
them and visit their island home. We gladly
accepted the invitation, and in a few moments
the other lady passenger and myself were climb-
ing down the rope ladder at the side of the ship
into the boat. It took but a short time to reach
the shore, or reef rather, for it was low tide,
and, disembarking, we walked about a quarter
of a mile over the reef, avoiding as best we
could the hollows which the receding tide had
left filled with water, forming natural aqua-
riums. The reef passed over, we stepped on
shore, and many were our exclamations at the
novelty and beauty of the scene before us.

My idea of a guano island had always been
that it was very rocky, and covered with a
white substance resembling mortar before the
sand is mixed with it. I imagined, too, that it
exhaled an odor differing somewhat from the
orange groves of Tahiti. Had I not been told

that I was on a guano island, I would not now
have known it from the surroundings. Instead
of being rocky, the soil was mellow and dark,
and everywhere vegetation was most luxuriant.
The air was remarkably clear and pure. Dur-
ing a walk around the island, I then learned that
there are two kinds of guano ; or, rather, that
of certain qualities which all guano possesses,
some of these qualities predominate in that
found in a given locality, while guano taken
from islands differently located possesses in a
much stronger degree some other essentials.
Thus the guano of the islands off the coasts of
South America, exposed to the rays of a trop-
ical sun, where the surface of the land is never
cooled, and where rain seldom or never falls,
possesses the strongest ammoniacal properties.
Not only the excretions of birds are deposited
there, but the birds themselves come there to
die ; and eggs have frequently been taken out,
a little below the crusts which form over these
deposits, that are almost pure ammonia. The
guano of these islands has a strong, pungent
odor, and is white and light brown in color.
But the guano of the islands of the Southern
Pacific is made up of decomposed coral, form-
ing mostly phosphates of lime and magnesia.
It is entirely inodorous, and of a dark brown
color, resembling well pulverized loam. It is
believed that the birds, which in large numbers
inhabit these islands, living, as they do, almost
entirely on fish, deposit phosphoric acid on the
coral, and also leave the bones of the fish, which
they cannot eat. These decompose the coral,
and thus form the phosphates which give to
the guano its value. The guano is separated
from the coral in the following manner : There
is quite a force of natives employed, who gather
the earth in large heaps, and then screen it in
the same manner as fine coal is separated from
coarse. The screens are about eight feet by
three, and the iron gauze covering them is fine,
allowing only the guano, or fine portions of the
earth, to pass through, and leaving the coral in
the screens. The guano is then sacked, and
shipped to Hamburg, whence it is reshipped to
different parts of Europe.

Having satisfied our curiosity in regard to
the guano, we looked about us for other objects
of interest. There is quite a plantation of cocoa-
nut trees on one side of the island, but they ap-
pear to be slowly dying. It is strange that
although this tree attains a great hight, and
appears capable of withstanding the storms of
decades, yet should any disease or worm attack
the central tuft of feathery foliage which crowns
its top the tree inevitably dies. There were
other trees, also, on the island, one of which,
whose name I have forgotten, furnishes a very

A DAY ON A GUANO ISLAND.

beautiful wood for cabinet use. Mr. Arundel
showed us an easy chair, the frame of which
was made from this wood. It is of a dark color,
takes a fine polish, and is as durable as ma-
hogany.

We had been all this time slowly walking to-
ward the beach which partly inclosed the island.
Although at the landing-place the reef came
close up to the shore, on the western side of the
island it ran out into the ocean about half a mile
from the land. Here there was a fine beach,
two or three miles in extent, covered with glis-
tening white sand, in which could be found
many beautiful shells, but we had time to gath-
er only a few. There were the shells of various
kinds of lobsters, crabs, and other shell -fish,
which the sun's powerful rays had bleached to
a pearly whiteness, or changed into hues of lav-
ender, deep purple, and brilliant blue. I car-
ried some of them away with me, but they were
so brittle that they were broken on the passage
home. It is difficult to imagine anything more
beautiful than this beach, with its banks of snow-
white, glittering sands, the green, luxuriant veg-
etation above them, and the foamy, crested
waves, which, gallantly charging onward, seem-
ed eager to submerge the tiny island, until, as if
in obedience to that mighty voice which says,
"Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther," they
suddenly broke and divided into numberless tiny
ripples at our feet.

We next visited a small lagoon, which had
been inclosed, and some green turtles, caught
by the gentlemen, placed therein. But alas for
their future anticipations of turtle soup ! An
enterprising hard -shelled turtle had made an
opening in the corral^ and not only had he him-
self escaped, but the others had all followed in
his wake. Passing through a small grove of
trees, we were shown the house of the native
minister, built of bamboo, up in the branches of
one of the trees. Here the old preacher could
sit and meditate upon his sermon for the com-
ing Sabbath ; and eloquent, indeed, should have
been his discourse, surrounded as he was by
two of God's most glorious works, the ocean
and the heavens.

We had been roaming about for several hours,
and the summons to dinner, which reached us
at that moment, revealed to us the fact that
mental food will not satisfy the demands of the
stomach, and that "nature abhors a vacuum"
equally in mind or body. Our bill of fare was
quite varied. Fowls, canned meats and vege-
tables, desiccated potatoes, pudding, fruit, and
such handsome eggs it seemed a pity to break
the shells. They were the eggs of the plover, I
believe, and beautifully mottled brown and
white, gray, blue, and a delicate green. The

frigate, or man-of-war, bird is also found on
these islands. This bird, instead of catching
its own fish from the ocean, as do other birds,
waits until it sees some poor bird, smaller than
itself, wearily flying home with a fish in its beak.
Darting down upon it, it pecks at the bird until,
exhausted, it drops the fish. This the frigate
bird seizes upon, and hastens away to enjoy its
ill gotten meal, while the other bird must either
go supperless to bed or catch another fish.

Our hosts made the dinner hour pass most
pleasantly by their interesting accounts of the
neighboring islands, with their products, birds,
and so forth. When we rose from the table we
were shown through the dwelling-house, and
then the gentlemen retired to write their letters,
having bidden us to look around wherever fancy
dictated. The house was a large, one-story cot-
tage, built of wood, with a broad veranda run-
ning around three sides of it. The room in
which we dined was dining and sitting-room
combined. A parlor organ stood in one corner,
pictures hung on the walls, and rare shells and
curiosities were placed in attractive positions.
There were book -cases filled with books, mag-
azines, and papers from every part of the world.
Newspapers which I had not seen since I left
Massachusetts, years ago, looked at me with
familiar pages, and my heart thrilled at the
thought that words penned in my native State,
thousands of miles away, wafted across a con-
tinent and over the broad Pacific, should meet
my eye on this lone island. Native mats were
strewn upon the floor, and everything, from the
little flower garden outside of the veranda to
the exquisite neatness inside of the house, be-
spoke the culture and refinement of our gentle-
manly host. Adjoining the sitting-room was
the bed-room, containing two single beds. Back
of these rooms was the laboratory of the Super-
intendent. There were crucibles and retorts,
a brick furnace, shelves containing bottles of
chemicals, acids, and powders, bags containing
samples of earth brought or sent from other
islands to be tested as to their value in guano,
and many other needful adjuncts to a scientific
investigator. There were also curious looking
minerals, and the gathered trophies of many a
voyage to distant lands. Another large room,
used as a store for the natives employed on the
island, and a bath room, completed the list of
apartments, the kitchen being in a separate
building, at a short distance from the main
house. There were also a fowl-house, a stable
for the three horses employed on the island,
and the bamboo huts of the natives, forming
altogether quite a settlement.

Mr. Arundel, the Superintendent of these
guano islands, is what we too seldom find in

THE CALIFORNIAN.

these far-away places — a Christian gentleman,
educated and refined, who tries in every way to
benefit those who come within reach of his in-
fluence. The natives reverence and love him.
Were more of our white traders and business
men who go to the islands of the South Pacific
possessed of a similar spirit, it would not be an
open question, as it certainly must be now to
any thinking person who visits these islands,
whether civilization has not been more of a
curse to the natives than a benefit.

But the pleasantest days must have an end-
ing, and the sun, gradually, but surely, sinking
toward the western horizon, admonished us that
the short twilight of the tropics would soon be
upon us, and that we must return to our ship.

The tide now covered the reef, and as it was
not considered safe to bring the boat up over it,
lest the jagged edges of coral might injure it,
we ladies, seated in Chinese lounging chairs,
were escorted in honor down to the boat by na-
tives, two on each side of our chairs, holding
us up above the water, which was nearly three
feet deep. Every now and then the foot of one
of the men would slip into one of the numerous
hollows of the reef, and we had fears of an in-
voluntary bath. But we reached the boat with-
out any such mishap befalling us, and with many
thanks to the gentlemen for their courtesy and
kind attentions, and amid the smiling "yuran-
nahs" of our native bearers, we bade farewell to
Caroline Island. EMILY S. Loub.

•• *

MOTHS ROUND A LAMP.

The red sun fell two sultry hours before;

No dew has made the lawn's vague spaces damp;
In through my open windows more and more

The giddy moths come reeling round the lamp.

From bournes of Nature's pastoral silence brought,
Below the night's pure orbs, the wind's faint breath,

What willful spell, I question of my thought,
Entices them to this mad glaring death?

By what perverse doom are they led to meet
This fiery ruin, when so calm and cool

The deep grass drowses at the elms' dim feet,

The moist leaves droop above the starlit pool? . . .

But while in dreamy watch I linger long,
To duskier coloring my mood recedes,

Till now the tranquil chamber seems to throng
With dark wild imageries of man's misdeeds.

And then, like some full rustle of sudden wings,
A long breeze floats disconsolately past,

And steals from unseen foliage that it swings
A murmur of lamentation, till at last,

While the sad pulses of each gradual tone
A sadder meaning from my reverie win,

All earth's rebellious agony seems to moan
The curse, the mystery of all human sin !

EDGAR FAWCETT.

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

117

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

CHAPTER XIII.

Howard felt the necessity of reaching San
]os6 with all possible dispatch. But he was
compelled to walk, and the distance was about
fifteen miles. He hoped, however, to fall in
with a wagon; but night had overtaken him,
and he had found no assistance. It was impos-
sible for him to sleep. Already he was weary
and footsore ; but he was capable of great en-
durance, was full of youth and life and strength,
and was spurred forward by a powerful desire
to shield those who were so dear to him. He
could do this with perfect ease. The case was
plain enough — his surrender and confession
would relieve them of all suspicion.

He was, as Judge Simon had conjectured, an
extraordinary man ; but, after all, a confession
of a crime is not an uncommon thing. Fre-
quently the commission of a desperate deed is
the sole purpose of life. When it is done, every-
thing is accomplished, and the problem of life
has been worked out, and the end reached. In
such cases, unless coveted death comes to his
relief, the criminal thereafter leads a miserable,
broken life. It requires a peculiar tempera-
ment to bring about such a condition. There
must be morbid sensitivenesss and a quick
conscience. Hope must be dead, and all the
charms of life must be changed to bitterness.

Perhaps Howard was playing a deep game,
and saw a way out of the difficulty.

Nevertheless, his purpose was strong, and no
power in heaven or earth could shake it. Hav-
ing a sound judgment, and fully relying upon it,
he would accept from no one any advice. As
Judge Simon once remarked, it was strange that
the young man should persist in a course which
he knew would break his mother's heart. Was
this merely an alternative?

Howard trudged heavily along the road, fol-
lowing the windings of Los Gatos. The stream
had not yet subsided to the volume of a mere
brook, and sometimes the road, which frequent-
ly traversed the bed of the stream in dry weath-
er, wound in and out among clumps of shrub-
bery on the bank.

It was some time after dark that he found
himself confronted by a tall man, who stood
perfectly still, awaiting him. He had been
walking with his head down, absorbed in his
thoughts. He suddenly halted, and his heart

Vol. III.— 8.

leaped with a strange dread. He had caught
sight of the man with much the same feeling
that one sees an object in the room at first
waking, and which, but imperfectly seen and
understood, takes on a hideous shape, and
causes fright ; or as, when walking in the dark,
one catches sight of an object that seems im-
mediately near, when, in fact, it may be a great
distance away.

Howard was hardly susceptible to fear, but
being of a nervous temperament he was easily
startled. His first impulse was to address the
silent figure. Then he laughed at his tempo-
rary timidity, and went forward, expecting the
man to stand aside, or speak, or show some
sign of life. At this time he was about ten
feet from the man. Howard^ was greatly sur-
prised to see him make a movement as if to
spring forward, with his right arm raised, and
something in his hand. This could barely be
seen in the gloom. The man, however, sud-
denly checked himself, sprung aside, and dis-
appeared in the brush. Howard called after
him, but received no answer, and presently
everything was silent again.

This strange occurrence filled the young
man's mind, with forebodings of no pleasant
character. He went on, pondering deeply on
it, when suddenly he uttered a suppressed ex-
clamation :

"The Crane!"

Was this man hunting his life, and did his
courage fail at the supreme moment? Howard
was almost in his power. A quick stroke might
have done the work, though the young man
was active and strong, and might have turned
the tables. He searched his mind for an ex-
planation, and then discovered it: the Crane
would murder him, and hide his body, and
claim Mrs. Howard's offered reward. Howard
smiled in some bitterness as he reflected on the
fact that the means his mother had adopted to
save him were now directed against his life.
The Crane did not know of the reward for How-
ard's arrest that had been offered by the author-
ities, which was ten times as great as the stake
for which he played.

"Very well," thought Howard. "If he at-
tempts it again I will tell him of the Governor's
reward, and permit him to arrest me."

Still, this conclusion did not banish the dread
he experienced, for the Crane might strike him

THE CALIFORNIAN.

in the back unawares. The young man did
not really believe that the Crane would again
make the attempt ; but his recent narrow escape
filled him with alarm, and he was determined
to, be on his guard henceforth. With brisk
walking he ought to reach San Jos& by sunrise ;
but the whole night was before him, and his
position was perilous. As a precautionary meas-
ure, he armed himself with a heavy stick, which
he used as a walking -cane, and again walked
briskly on.

The night was still, and the least sound could
be heard a considerable distance. Once or twice
he thought he heard the crackling of twigs as of
some one walking along the mountain-side, and
on such occasions he halted and listened intent-
ly, and heard nothing more. He grasped his
stick firmly, and trudged on, never passing a
clump of bushes or a large tree on the road-side
without expecting the appearance of the Crane.

About ten o'clock he heard behind him, faint
in the distance, the approach of a wagon. Just
as he had halted, and was straining his hearing
to catch the sounds, something sprung upon
his back, fastening its fangs in his shoulder,
and suddenly jerking him to the ground. He
fell upon his back, and his assailant pressed
his knee upon his breast, and raised a knife,
and struck. Howard caught the wrist, and the
Crane made powerful efforts to liberate his hand;
but Howard held it like a vice. A quiet strug-
gle then ensued. Howard was a stronger man
than the Crane, and easily held the right arm
of the latter with his own left hand. But he
could not rise. The Crane held him to the
ground. It was then merely a matter of en-
durance and time. Whoever should get pos-
session of the knife was the victor. The Crane
closed his fingers on Howard's throat, and How-
ard tore his hand away, and thus held him
firmly by both hands, .

The wagon rapidly approached. The Crane
suddenly became aware of its proximity ; and,
cursing and twisting, attempted to rise; but
Howard pulled him down, and held him.

"Hello, there !" called one of the two men in
the wagon, as the horses reared with fright at
the strange sight in the road.

No answer was returned. They alighted, and
approached cautiously. The two men on the
ground were breathing audibly.

"I believe they are the men we want. Who
are you? What are you doing?"

"Take that knife from him," said Howard,
speaking with difficulty, all the Crane's weight
being on his chest.

"Fighting, are you?" replied one of the men,
as he secured the knife, which the Crane will-
ingly yielded up.

Howard released his grasp, and the Crane
rose, followed by Howard. The two strangers
were greatly astonished. The Crane remarked :

"He was a-tryin' to git his work in on me,
an' I got the knife away from him, and throwed
him down."

Howard simply smiled at this statement.

The man who had remained in the back-
ground, seeing that the danger was over, stretch-
ed himself, causing apparently every joint in
his body to snap. He slowly produced a re-
volver, and said :

"Ye're the man I'm lookin' fer, Howard.
Ye're my prizner. Ye wasn't satisfied with
killin' a girl, but ye wanted to put this fellow
out o' the way."

Howard made no reply. The men bound
him, and placed him in the wagon ; and during
all the time thus occupied, Howard did not ut-
ter a word. As he took his seat in the floor
of the wagon, one of the men grasped his col-
lar, that he might not escape.

"Hello! What is this?" he exclaimed.

He released his hold, and examined his hand.

"Blood," he said. "Where're you cut, young
man?"

Howard sullenly remained silent. The man
lighted a lantern, and examined his prisoner's
shoulder, and found a knife wound.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "That was struck
from behind."

Then he looked around for the Crane, who
had disappeared.

" Tears to me," said the man of noisy joints,
as they whipped up the horses, "jedgin' from
the wipe he fetched ye in the shoulder, that
ye warn't the man on the kill. 'S thet so ?''

Howard deigned no reply. He was pecul-
iarly a stubborn man, and scornful of many
things.

"Well," mused the clerk5 "I reckin' ye're
right to hold yer lip. Mebbe he hed a proper
grudge agin ye;" saying which, he relapsed
into silence, and the wagon bowled along the
mountain road through the dust.

With all necessary pomp and decorum the
two men turned over their prisoner to Casserly.
They related with much satisfaction their acute-
ness in discovering the outlaw through his pro-
found disguise, and his cunning behavior in
attempting to escape identification, and the
sanguinary struggle they witnessed in the road.

Casserly was grateful. His plans all worked
smoothly enough, and he had little of which
to complain. The prisoner's wound was very
slight, for the Crane in his excitement had
missed his mark.

The problem that now confronted Casserly
was this : While there could be no doubt that

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

119

all three of the prisoners were cognizant of the
facts connected with the death of Rose Howard,
it was utterly improbable that all were guilty;
consequently, the criminal must be one, or per-
haps two ; and the difficulty lay in extorting a
statement from any one of them. Casserly had
studied this problem from every point of view,
and he and Garratt had discussed the matter
at great length. It was quite true that the
testimony of Emily and Mrs. Howard could be
dispensed with, for John Howard reiterated his
confession, adding that neither his mother nor
the girl was connected with the affair in any
way whatever. It was his own concern, he
said.

Casserly was somewhat startled to hear How-
ward say in some confusion :

"I killed her accidentally."

"Ah," thought Casserly, "he is regretting
already, and is commencing to hedge. I will
talk further with him about this."

Howard was again in the Little Tank, which
had been made secure.

"I regret," he said, in a calm manner, "that
I informed you the shot was fired accidentally.
I regret it, because I surrendered myself as
a murderer, whereas accidental killing is not
murder ; and in this particular there is a vari-
ance in my confession. But let me put the
case to you in this way: When I saw that I
had killed her — she was very dear to me," and
the prisoner's voice was not quite steady as he
said this — "I was in despair, and acted impul-
sively. Again, if I had at first said the killing
was accidental, it would, as matters have turned
out, have been discredited by all the evident
efforts my mother has made to shield me."

" If it was accidental, why did she wish to
shield you?"

"Because, in my despair, I neglected to tell
her that it was accidental, and she acted under
misapprehension."

This explanation completely disarmed Cas-
serly. It was the solution of the whole mys-
tery, and was so unexpected as to be a violent
surprise. He sent for Garratt, and related this
new development.

"I would by no means accept it," said Gar-
ratt. "Why did you buy the pistol, Howard?"

Garratt's brusque manner incensed Howard,
who regarded the Coroner with a look of scorn.
Turning to Casserly, Howard quietly said :

"If you take this — person away, I will ex-
plain it."

Garratt turned on his heel and left,^boiling
with rage. Before he had got beyond ear-shot,
Howard said, deferentially, to Casserly :

"If you have no serious objection, I will thrash
him."

Casserly smiled gravely at this nonchalance.
Garratt cast a terrible look upon the prisoner,
and then passed out.

"The purchasing of the pistol," said Howard,
"was merely a circumstance. I bought it for
the simple reason that burglaries are so numer-
ous now."

This was plausible, for house-breakers infest-
ed the town.

"Why didn't you explain this matter to your
mother when she stole you from the mob?"

"Because she would not let me speak, the
Crane being present; and, to be sure that I
should not, she removed my clothes, stuffed
them with straw, secured the two placards, and
did not, during the whole time, remove the gag
from my mouth, fearing I should say something
that it would be dangerous for the Crane to
hear. It was after she left me that the Crane
removed the gag."

"Did she untie your hands?"

"No."

"How did she remove your coat, then?"

"She cut the sleeves with a long hunting-
knife."

Casserly nodded, and said :

"That's right; the sleeves were cut. You
would have removed the gag and explained if
she had released your hands?"

"I might have done so, and I might not.
There was no necessity for it."

"Why did you not come back as soon as the
Crane released you?"

"I saw no necessity for that, for I did not
know that my mother had been arrested, or
that Emily had fled, or that a reward had been
offered for my arrest, until I read the account
in the store of the man who arrested me. As
soon as I did find out that it had taken so seri-
ous a turn, I started to come, and was over-
taken and arrested. Furthermore, after I had
regained my liberty the possibility occurred to
me that my statement of accidental killing would
not be believed, and I valued my mother's hap-
piness too highly to run the risk of the gallows
through a possible unwillingness of the jury to
credit my statement."

At Casserly's request, Howard entered into
the minute details of the killing.

He was explaining to his cousin the use of the
revolver, when it was accidentally discharged.

Casserly would have been perfectly satisfied
with this statement, though it caused him dis-
appointment and chagrin, and he could have
effected the young man's release ; but Garratt,
whom he immediately sought, laughed at him
for his credulity, and made him waver.

"I am surprised," he said, "that an experi-
enced man like you should be hoodwinked by

120

THE CALIFORNIAN.

such a shallow story. It seems probable, but I
tell you it is not true."

"Why not?"

"Well, one reason is that his perturbation
and excitement at the time of his surrender
should have been grief. Again, it is altogether
improbable — and you know it is, Casserly — that
he should have neglected to inform his mother
at once."

"Then, what do you think is the truth?"

" I am forced to one conclusion, Casserly. I
hardly believe the boy is guilty, though his face
shows that he is capable of anything?"

"Who is guilty?"

"The mother."

This was the first time that such a proposi-
tion had been put in definite shape, and Cas-
serly unconsciously felt his heart sink.

"What is your reason for thinking that, Doc-
tor?"

"You know we have learned that Rose How-
ard was a dependent, while Emily Randolph
has a large property. The mother is proud and
ambitious. She induced this girl to visit her,
in the hope that she would win her son, who, I
believe, loved the dead girl, and was broken-
hearted at her death. The mother, finding this
to fail, murdered her niece. Knowing that his
mother committed the deed, and having noth-
ing more to live for, he surrendered himself to
save his mother. Now, see what a craven cow-
ard he is : after having had time to reflect upon
it, and regain his equilibrium, he commences to
retract and modify. It is our duty, Casserly, to
bring the right person to justice. It would be
wrong to allow this young man to be tried, and
possibly convicted, for a crime of which he is
not guilty."

Casserly was silent. The Coroner's words
impressed him deeply.

"Oh, by the by, Casserly, did I show you this
letter?"

"What is it?"

"A long letter from Howard to his cousin.
It was found this morning. That will convince
you."

Casserly read the letter. It was an earnest
outpouring of the deepest affection. It puzzled
Casserly exceedingly. Then he noticed the
date.

"Why," said he, "it is ten months old."

"That makes no difference."

"He might have changed his love."

"Bah ! Are you looking for excuses, Cas-
serly? Again, on the night of. the killing the
mother raved, and said, 'My poor boy, my poor
boy !' What did that mean? Simply that she
regretted the act, and feared the effect on her
son."

"What would you suggest?"

"We will make the woman confess."

"How?"

"By confronting her with her son's confes-
sion. We will let her know nothing of this new
phase he attempts to thrust upon us. She is
very deep and wily, and may find a way to ex-
plain it all. But I feel certain that she will not
permit him to stand trial; and, if we are cau-
tious, we may extort a confession. I have seen
the girl. It is utterly useless to try anything
in that quarter. She has no confidence in her
own shrewdness, and, besides, leaves everything
to Mrs. Howard : so will not speak."

"Well, I am willing to try it," said Casserly,
reflecting.

"It is your duty, Casserly. Now listen. I
suspect Judge Simon of a great deal."

"What?" asked Casserly, opening his eyes.

."Never mind now. For all you know he
might have arranged this last plan, and the
mother may know all. But you must not let
him see Howard again, and he must not know
what has occurred, if he doesn't already know.
Let us go and confront the woman."

This they did at once.

CHAPTER XIV.

They found her looking weary and broken
down. She received them graciously, but with
some reserve. This alarmed Garratt. He asked:

"Has Judge Simon been here this morning,
madam?"

"Yes."

" I suppose he told you of your son's arrest."

"No," she replied, becoming very pale, and
much frightened.

Garratt was triumphant. Evidently the old
man had not heard the news.

"Yes; he was brought in this morning."

She regarded them eagerly and anxiously. It
could plainly be seen that her strength was
failing, and that, with shattered nerves, she
was not the woman of two days ago. She had
been unable to sleep, and could not partake of
food. In spite of her strong efforts to retain
complete mastery over herself, she failed, and
her face betrayed her. The most powerful agen-
cy that hunters for criminals can employ is to
wear out their game, and bring it to bay
through exhaustion. The principle is this:
anything is preferable to suspense.

"I see no chance for him, madam; he pro-
tests his guilt."

She remained speechless a long time, and
then asked :

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

121

"Will you let me see my son?"

"It is out of the question, madam."

Again was she silent. Presently she asked :

"May I speak to Judge Simon?"

"He has gone to San Francisco to remain a

few days. He left this note for you, as he was

called away suddenly."

She read the note, which ran thus :

"MRS. HOWARD: — I think it will be far better for
all concerned to make a full statement. I advise you
to do this. Trust all to me. ADOLPH SIMON."

This was the severest blow she had received.
Was Judge Simon betraying her? Many con-
jectures rapidly chased one another through
her weary brain ; and then she hung her head,
and gave up all hope. She had staked her all,
and had lost. It was impossible that Judge
Simon had betrayed her. She banished the
thought, ashamed that she had entertained it a
moment. "Trust all to me." That meant a
great deal — it meant everything. Perhaps,
then, it were better to tell the whole truth.
Perhaps he saw a way through it all. He was
deeply learned in all matters pertaining to the
law, and his judgment was better than hers.
What would be the effect of prevarication? It
may destroy the effect of the truth, if the truth
must be told at last. She pondered long and
deeply. The way was dark, and she groped
blindly, and stumbled, and

" I will tell you the whole truth," she said at
last, in her soft, musical voice, but with pain in
her eyes.

Again did she become silent, as if unable 'to
utter the words, or as if pondering beforehand
on their effect.

"Well?" asked Garratt, his voice startling
her.

Then she hung her head, and would not look
them in the face, as, in low tones, she told the
following story, raveling, the meanwhile, a
handkerchief which she had torn to bind her
aching temples :

"I had hoped," she said, "that I would be

spared this conf statement, I had hoped

that my son's innocence would be established ;
and that, all suspicion having been removed
from him, it would not rest elsewhere. At first
I did not believe that justice would be so per-
sistent ; and in my blindness I thought it would
become weary of the hunt. I hoped that, as
there was so little to be gained by the discov-
ery of the truth ; as nothing demanded it but a
strict construction of justice and the clamor of
the people for a careful investigation ; and as
it would destroy happiness and, perhaps, life,
without recalling the dead — I hoped that jus-
tice would become weary, and desist. Doctor

Garratt," she continued, regarding that gen-
tleman steadily a few moments, "after you
have heard what I am about to say, I hope
you will not regret your zeal. I trust that in
years to come, when age shall have bowed you
down, and the grave opens at your feet; or
when, by some unexpected means, sorrow may
overtake you, and your heart thus become soft-
ened, and opened to the memory of things that
you have done, and of acts of harshness or
kindness that, through a sense of duty, you
have performed — I trust that then you may not
regret your zeal. I shall pray that, for your
own happiness, and that of your wife and chil-
dren, you may never learn the grand truth that
human charity is the noblest virtue, nor that
the standard which the purity of our own lives
raises up for all other lives is not always last-
ing. You have hunted me down, Doctor Gar-
ratt."

She dropped her eyes to the handkerchief
which she was raveling, and pulled out several
threads at once, causing the fringe to lengthen
perceptibly.

"Mr. Casserly," she continued, "I believe
you have done your duty. I think you have
noble and generous impulses. It is my opinion
— though I may be mistaken in my estimate of
you — that if you had relied solely on your own
construction of right, this last extremity would
not have been reached — it would have been
unnecessary. I am sure that what you will
learn from my recital will pain you, even though
it may not plant a sting in your conscience.
Your regret will be, not alone that justice is
harsh, but that you have been led to believe
that justice is necessary. I have no reproaches
for you, Mr. Casserly."

The fringe was lengthening very slowly.

"Gentlemen, my son is innocent. It makes
little difference to me whether you think I am
attempting to shield him or am telling the truth.
Indeed, I think that you expected me to pro-
tect him. I rescued him from a terrible death,
and at the same time tore him from the grasp
of the law. I would have done it though he had
been guilty of the darkest crime that history
knows. I would have saved him though he
had attempted my own life. He is a noble boy.
I knew he would be, when, as a babe, I held
him to my breast ; and doubly great did my de-
votion to him become when his father died, ten
years ago. He is my only child, and, what is
infinitely more, my only son. And no circum-
stance has ever transpired to shake my love for
him, or to make him other than what he is at
this moment — my king."

She paused after saying this, for her voice
was husky, and she was busily engaged in re-

122

THE CAL1FORNIAN.

moving a tangle in the fringe, which, being long,
was becoming rebellious.

"Is it possible, gentlemen, that none of you
have understood his nature well enough to see
that his persistency in avowing his guilt is un-
natural ? Are you so blind to truth, and so ab-
sorbed in an insatiable desire to mete out pun-
ishment for a crime you know has been com-
mitted, that you cannot see his motive? Con-
sider : he is not a man capable of cool and de-
liberate calculation. His nature is impulsive,
because his heart is warm and generous. What,
then, would be the natural consequence? Sup-
pose that he loved his mother even with the love
of simple gratitude ; suppose that this love was
merely an appreciation of his mother's devotion;
suppose that from this source came not a tenth
of the love he bore his mother, but was the
deeper and truer love of a son— a love that
would live through a mother's cruelty, through
her disgrace, through her poverty, through ev-
erything, even hate — what would he do were
she in great distress? Think of that carefully.
I would ask you, Mr. Casserly, what would you
do for your mother?"

She raised her eyes, and regarded Casserly
for a moment, while he looked only at the floor.
The fragment of cloth was now half raveled,
and the length of the fringe gave her consider-
able trouble ; so she tore away the hem from the
other side, and started afresh. The threads be-
gan to fall rapidly on the floor.

"You will readily understand, and believe
his innocence, when I tell you the history.
Rose Howard was adopted by my husband
when she was quite a child. She was a sweet,
lovable, unselfish child, and we loved her dear-
ly. She brought so much sunshine into the
house ! Her flaxen hair, and rosy cheeks, and
bright blue eyes, and cheery child's laugh, trans-
formed our quiet home. My boy had always
been grave, and so dearly did he love me that
he watched with jealousy my growing love for
the litle girl, and would have learned to hate
his little cousin ; but she would throw her arms
around his neck, and kiss him, and laugh at
him, and show in so mapy ways how sweet she
was and how much she loved him, that he
would kiss her in return, and laugh as heartily
as she. I was ambitious for my son. He de-
veloped a strong mind and stanch principles,
and I saw a brilliant future awaiting him. As
they advanced in years it began to dawn upon
my mind that the bright little beauty had be-
come very dear to him. This grieved me much.
Ah, what a mistake I made! My ambition
blinded my love. Then I sent him away to
college. After acquiring a fair education in
America, I sent him to Europe, and he gradu-

ated with high honors. Two years ago he re-
turned. You cannot imagine how proud I was
to see my boy a strong, handsome man, free
from contamination with the corrupting influ-
ences of the world, and gentle, kind, and brave.
My heart had so yearned for him during all
the years that he was absent that I lavished a
wealth of love upon him. His cousin was just
merging into lovely womanhood. She had be-
come more quiet, but was cheerful and happy.
The children had regularly corresponded, and,
though they employed endearing and affection-
ate terms, there was nothing to indicate more
than the natural love between brother and sis-
ter. When they met, there was a tender, touch-
ing welcome from her, and he took her in his
strong arms and smothered her with kisses. I
thought little about it, but presently Rose, who
had been quietly holding one of his hands while
I held the other, slipped away to her room. I
soon went to find her, and saw her lying on the
floor, crying.

"'Rose, my child,' I asked, 'what is the mat-
ter with my little girl?'

"'Oh, mother,' she replied, 'I am so glad he
has come ! It almost kills me.' "

The poor woman worked nervously at the
raveling, and two bright tears trembled upon
her lashes, and then dropped upon her hand.
The strip of cloth was becoming narrower and
narrower, and the fringe was very much longer.

"It distressed me exceedingly, but I lived in
hope that the extensive knowledge my son had
of the world ; the number of charming women
he must have met; the callousness that, per-
haps, numerous love affairs had produced ; the
keen appreciation I knew he had for a bache-
lor's freedom ; the lack of restraint that I knew
he loved ; an ambition to utilize, in the study of
law, the extensive knowledge he already had
acquired ; the desire I knew him to possess to
mingle as much as possible with learned men,
and to be free from the obligations to seclusion
that a married life imposes — all these, in addi-
tion to a desire that I thought existed in him to
marry, if at all, a woman of the world — brilliant,
rich, worshiped by society — these, I thought,
raised up a barrier between him and his cousin.
But I was fatally mistaken in his nature. I
found that the world, as it does with all but
ordinary natures, had broadened his views and
made liberal his ideas. I discovered that wan-
derings in strange lands, among strangers, had
taught him a deep and holy appreciation of
home, and of the quiet and happiness it affords.
I learned that his nature was more affectionate
than ambitious, and that he was warm — some-
times impulsive — but, withal, singularly quiet
and unobtrusive. Modesty was a prominent

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

123

feature in his character. He was not a seeker
for novelty or excitement. Still, it was a pecul-
iarity with him that he could readily accom-
modate himself to whatever surroundings he
might have ; but, for all that, he had a choice
in all things. He was remarkably unselfish,
liberal, and charitable. I had some means —
enough for all purposes as long as either of us
might live ; but he was not extravagant, and his
wants were very few. And it struck me as being
particularly singular that he despised my money,
though he endeavored to conceal his feelings ;
and I saw that his greatest aim in life was not
to win fame, nor become a hero or a wealthy
man, but to live independent of my means. I
must confess that this disappointed me greatly.
I saw that he had more pride than ambition?
and that his will was stronger than mine. It
was then that I felt his power and superiority,
and thenceforward he was my master. It made
me love him the more, and cling to him the
closer, and depend more on his better judgment
in all things ; and it was not without a pang of
wounded pride that I, who had from girlhood
been a queen in my own home, and who had
held him on my knee when he was a helpless
infant, saw him rise up in his great manly
strength and conquer me. I looked up to him,
and worshiped him, and this is the punishment
that God has visited upon me."

And still the fringe grew longer and longer.

"It was his unconquerable pride that opened
my eyes to the fact that he would not marry for
money ; that, other things being equal, he would
marry poverty in preference, and fight his way
through the world, proud and independent. Still
I did not despair. Learning that Emily Ran-
dolph, the daughter of an old friend, was threat-
ened with consumption, I offered her a home in
my house. Though not a brilliant girl, she had
been given superior advantages, and had well
availed herself of them. I knew that my son
loved his cousin — how deeply I did not know,
but I believed she was very dear to him; for
when he would leave home for short trips he
would write her letters full of the tenderest af-
fection. Emily Randolph, I thought, was bet-
ter fitted to be his wife. She was not only
wealthy, but had a timid, shrinking, retiring
nature, that I felt sure would win upon his
strong character. So you will understand that
my motives in introducing Emily to my home
were not altogether ambitious ones. Her con-
nections were high, proud, and influential. Her
disposition was very different from that of my
niece, who was all sunshine and storm. Rose's
temper was not as patient as Emily's, but I be-
lieve she was more unselfish and self-sacrificing.
She was bright and cheerful, and prettier than

Emily, and fuller of life and spirit. But I
thought that for these reasons John would love
Emily the better, for he was strong and she was
weak. The climate of California proved vastly
beneficial to Emily's health; but, as we were
living in San Francisco, the climate became too
harsh for her after she had experienced the first
benefits of its bracing effect, and, as soon as I
could, I moved to San Josd. I thought at first
that my plans worked well. My son petted her,
and treated her like a child ; but that only grat-
ified me, for I saw that he felt the difference in
their natures. She seemed for a time to dread
him, for he was, in her eyes, a peaceful lion,
that might suddenly burst through the restraints
of his taming, and tear and crush ; and I think
she still regards him in that light. Rose had a
stronger nature, and did not fear her cousin.
She was his companion, and not his slave.
Now, you will at once see that with a man hav-
ing his disposition — kindness and tenderness,
accompanied by strength — there is no inclina-
tion to exercise, or feel consciousness of, any
superiority whatever, but rather is there a long-
ing for a helpmate and a companion. So I saw
my cherished scheme fall to the ground through
an insufficient knowledge of human nature on
my part. I had studied the problem carefully,
and had failed to solve it. I saw my niece con-
tinue her sway over my son's heart. Then it
was that I resorted to the last means in my
power. I would reason with my niece, and
plead with her, by the love she bore my son, to
relinquish him. This interview occurred on
the night of the 2oth of June."

But a few strands remained. A moment
more, and the last thread would be raveled.

" I led her into my son's room, and broached
the subject as tenderly as I could. It was a
terrible blow to the poor child; and at first it
crushed her ; but soon she recovered, and then,
rising up in the majesty of outraged woman-
hood, she charged me with heartlessness and
cruelty. Not only this, but she openly defied
me, and said that she and my son were as near
and as dear to each other as wife and husband
could be, and that no power on earth — not even
the machinations of his mother — could sepa-
rate them. I was standing near the bureau, on
w"hich lay a small pistol my son had recently
purchased for protection against burglars."

The unhappy woman paused a while, for the
supreme moment had arrived. Only one strand
remained to hold together the straggling fringe,
and she regarded it closely before removing it.
Her voice was very low as she continued:

"In a moment of mad passion that I should
be defied, and my fondest hope spurned, I
raised the pistol .... and fired May

124

THE CALIFORNIAN.

God .... have mercy .... on my soul!"
She buried her face in her hands ; and, chok-
ing with sobs, fell upon her knees as she uttered
the last words. Nothing now held the fringe
together, and it fell upon the floor, an ungainly

heap ; where a gust of wind, which then came
eddying in, madly caught it up, whirling it
hither and thither, finally driving several of the
strands out between the bars — out to life, and
light, and freedom. W. C. MORROW.

[CONTINUED IN NEXT NUMBER.]

THE DIVISION OF THE STATE.

The, project of a division of the State of Cal-
ifornia is not new. Even at the time of the
organization of the State, in 1849, the feeling in
favor of a separate government was very strong
in what are now the southern counties. This
feeling, instead of dying out, grew stronger
after the organization. In 1859, the State Leg-
islature, recognizing the existence of this feel-
ing, passed an act to provide for the separation
of the counties of San Luis Obispo, Santa Bar-
bara, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Bernardino,
and a portion of Buena Vista, from the remain-
der of the State. This act provided for the tak-
ing of a vote of the counties specified upon the
question of such separation. The act was ap-
proved by the Governor. The vote was taken,
and the result was in favor of a separation. A
certified copy of the act, with a report of the
vote of the people of the six counties ratifying
it, was transmitted officially by Governor La-
tham to the President of the United States.

These facts I take from a republication of the
official documents in the Los Angeles Weekly
Express, of May 8th, 1 880, forming a portion of
an article by ex- Governor John G. Downey.
The ground is taken by Governor Downey, in
his article, that this act is still valid, and that
only the consent of Congress is now necessary
to complete the division. Congress took no
action at that time, probably because of the
coming on of the war, and the absorbing inter-
est of political subjects since then has left the
whole matter dormant. The project has never
been forgotten, however. It has since then
been at various times discussed.

Several years ago I published in one of the
Los Angeles papers an article urging anew the
subject. This article was noticed to some ex-
tent by the papers of the State. The object of
the present article is to show the causes at
work tending to a division of the State; not dis-
cussing the question in any sectional or parti-
san manner, but as a question which should be
considered in only one light, viz.: the welfare of

the people interested in its decision. Yet I
write as a Southern Californian, loving my
home, loving its snow-capped mountains, lov-
ing every mile of its broad, sunny plains, and
the long leagues of its foam-girt shores.
Reasons tending to produce a separation :
First — The contour of the State is such that
the southern portion belongs to an entirely dif-
ferent geographical system.

In an article entitled " Climatic Studies in
Southern California," published in THE CALI-
FORNIAN for November, 1880, I described the
two great parallel ranges of Californian mount-
ains, the Sierra and the Coast, which hold be-
tween them that vast interior basin, the Sacra-
mento-San Joaquin. This basin, with the San
Francisco Bay and upper coast valleys, as the
Humboldt, the Santa Cruz, and Salinas, forms
one natural division of the State, constituting es-
pecially the Alta (or Upper) California of early
Spanish days. But, as described in that arti-
cle, these ranges, gradually drawing near to
each other, at length unite south of the Tulare
country in a broken confusion of peaks, from
which the Sierra, emerging, circles around the
westerly rim of the Mojave Desert, and then
turns off to an easterly course, forming a vast
wall between the upper interior basin and Cali-
fornia of the south. This mountain-wall marks
the dividing line between the Sacramento -San
Joaquin California and an entirely different
country. Practically, the only line of commu-
nication between the two for a quarter of a cent-
ury of union under the one State Government
was by the long circuit of the sea — down the
rivers to San Francisco Bay, out of the Heads
by ship, down four hundred miles of coast to
the ports of Santa Barbara, Wilmington, and
San Diego, and then back by land to the inte-
rior. The power of these mountains to separate
a people is shown in the fact that places in a
direct line only a few hundred miles from each
other were thus, for the purposes of commerce
or trade, a thousand miles apart.

THE DIVISION OF THE STATE.

125

This practical separation of many hundreds
of miles subjected the people south of these
mountains to long and tedious delays — delays
involving great loss and expense in the trans-
action of business with the legislative and judi-
cial departments of the State; for the prepon-
derance of population and wealth fixed the cap-
ital in the northern division. Had this coast,
like the eastern, been settled more slowly, it is
not probable that two sections so dissimilar ge-
ographically, so shut off from each other by
impassable mountains, would ever have been
joined under one State government. The exi-
gencies of the times, however, the power of
political parties, and the perils of a common
blood thus far removed from its home, forced a
union which circumstances have since kept up.
The union was felt to be so in opposition to
natural laws that at that time the people of
Southern California were much disinclined to
assent, and, as before shown, they have always
been restive under it, and have made one seri-
ous attempt to cut loose from it.

The completion of the Southern Pacific Rail-
road from San Francisco to Los Angeles has
made the separation somewhat less marked,
but the steep grades of the Tehachepi show
the feeble tenure of the bond thus made, and
the three thousand nine hundred and sixty-
four feet of elevation at which the road crosses
that range forever mark the dividing line be-
tween two distinct commercial systems.

It has been said that mountains interposed
make enemies of bloods that had else, like kin-
dred waters, been mingled into one. In this
instance they have not made enemies, but they
have made two distinct and separate peoples.

Second — Climatic differences, and the conse-
quent development of different types of charac-
ter in the people.

As a result of the difference of topographical
features, the climate of Southern California is
very different from that of the upper portion of
the State. The two great parallel ranges, the
Coast and the Sierra, with the long interior
plain of the Sacramento -San Joaquin, give to
the country north of the Tehachepi a sweep
of cold northerly wind, which is unknown in
Southern California, where the transverse ranges
wall off the north-westerly trade-winds and the
northers of the fall and winter, while the country
opening out toward the warm southern sea has
a hinting of the tropics in its climate.

With the difference in climate, and a differ-
ence in the distribution of the precious metals,
has come a difference in the pursuits of the
people. Upper California has been a mining
country, and is now becoming a grain-produc-
ing country. Southern California from a pas-

toral life is changing to a life of vineyards and
orchards. The emblem upon its seal should
be not the miner's pick and the crouching
bear, but the clustering grape, the orange,
the olive, and the broad leaves of the banana,
drooping in the warm rays of the southern
sun.

With this difference in climate and pursuits,
and as a consequence of it, there has been de-
veloped a difference in the character of the peo-
ple. The restless, uneasy mining population of
the north, ever drifting, without local attach-
ments, has no counterpart in Southern Califor-
nia ; neither has the wild spirit of mining spec-
ulation ever flourished here. Stocks have no
charms for the calmer blood of these people of
the south. Their wealth lies in their warm sun,
and in the broad leagues of well watered and
fertile soil. With this peaceful life, possibly in
part as a result of it, there has been grown up
in the people an intense love of their land. I
have seen nothing like it in the northern por-
tion of the State. And it is for their own sec-
tion of the State that this love exists. They
call themselves not Californians, but Southern
Californians. The feeling is intense. I can
only liken it to the overmastering love of the
old Greek for the sunny shores that lay around
the yEgean. Philosophize over it as we may,
the fact remains that here dwells a population
which is not Californian, but Southern Cali-
fornian.

For myself, I feel more and more each time
that I visit the upper portion of the State that
I am going into a strange land. And the im-
pression never leaves me until, upon my return,
I look down from the crest of the Tehachepi
over the warm southland. Then the feeling
comes to me that I am in my own land, and
among my own people again.

There is a certain tinge of pride, also, in the
feelings of this people. They cannot forget that
when San Francisco was yet a drift of unin-
habited sand-hills, and the interior known only
to a few wandering vaqueros. Southern Califor-
nia was a land of towns and vineyards, and of a
settled people. They cannot forget that South-
ern California is the older California; that it
was the former seat of government. It is the
pride of a century looking down with some-
what of a courteous pity upon the growth of
thirty years.

Third — Different commercial ties, needs, and
interests.

California of the north is centered in San
Francisco. The only outlet to the sea of all
the vast interior, which reaches from Shasta
on the north to Mount Pinos upon the south,
and from the Sierra to the Coast Range, is

126

THE CALIFORNIAN.

through the Golden Gate; and there San
Francisco sits as toll-gatherer. Paris is not
so much France as San Francisco is Califor-
nia of the north. It is San Francisco that
rules the daily life of all the broad plains of
the Sacramento - San Joaquin. Not until the
grade of the Tehachepi is crossed is the over-
mastering power of this one city lost, and
men no longer care what San Francisco says
or does.

Why is this?

It is simply because of the fact that the crest
of the Tehachepi marks the dividing line be-
tween two entirely different commercial sys-
tems. North of that line the law of grades
forces everything to the sea through San Fran-
cisco Bay. No ton of grain can go out to the
consumer unless toll is paid. South of the Te-
hachepi freight reaches ship at Santa Barbara,
Ventura, Wilmington, and San Diego. At the
foot of the land lies the great highway of the
sea, and beyond are the markets of the world.

The completion of the Southern Pacific Rail-
road eastward still further separates the com-
mercial relations of Southern California from
the upper portion of the State. It is giving
back to Southern California again its old posi-
tion at the portals of the East. As San Fran-
cisco, for a quarter of a century, when the com-
merce of the State was carried on by the sea,
stood at the gateway of the land, so, under the
newer order of railroads, shall some city of
Southern California stand warder at the en-
trance to the State from the plains.

The long line of the Sierra lifts like a forbid-
ding wall between Northern California and the
heart of the continent. The Central Pacific
climbs it on the route from San Francisco di-
rectly eastward, at an elevation of nearly eight
thousand feet. For hundreds of miles it has no
break. The whole length of the Sacramento-
San Joaquin plain has no pass worthy of the
name through it to the East. Here, however,
in Southern California, for the first time, the
range breaks down.

At the San Gorgonio Pass, directly east of
Los Angeles, the grassy plain swells up, and,
without even a distinguishable crest or divid-
ing line, rolls through to become one with that
other great southern plain whose farther verge
is fringed by the surf -line of Atlantic waters,
for the Rocky Mountains this far south hardly
mar the horizon line of that long inland plateau.
A gentleman could drive his one-horse buggy
from San Pedro to Galveston without dismount-
ing through stress of road.

The greatest elevation in the San Gorgonio
Pass is only two thousand eight hundred feet.
Vineyards look down upon it, and in midwin-

ter cattle and sheep graze upon the green grass.
Coming westward from the Mississippi, all the
natural grades of the continent point southward
toward this pass and the Cajon, which breaks
through the same range from the Mojave Des-
ert a few miles further north. The Utah South-
ern, the Atlantic and Pacific, the Atchison and
Topeka, the Southern Pacific, the Texas Pacific,
all are aiming to reach the waters of the west-
ern seas through these low southern passes.

These roads make Southern California inde-
pendent of San Francisco. The positions are
reversed. San Francisco must reach the East
through Los Angeles. Southern California is
to keep the toll-gate hereafter; and she knows
it. Her trade is already reaching out — not
northward, but eastward. Arizona and the in-
terior territories consume her produce. Her
merchants are laying their plans to buy their
goods not in the markets of San Francisco,
but upon the quays of St. Louis and New Or-
leans. The Southern Pacific says it will in four
days lay down the wines and the wheat of Los
Angeles upon the wharfs of Galveston, to take
ship directly for Europe.

What, then, has Southern California commer-
cially in common with San Francisco? Noth-
ing. And the people feel it. They say, Our
paths lie apart. Neither are they content that
San Francisco should retain all the trade with
China and Japan. They say, With our short
land lines, and easier grades to the East, we
shall claim our share of this trade for our own
sea-ports. They say, We talk of it now ; in ten
years we shall have it.

Fourth — Among the minor considerations
leading to the separation are questions of the
difficulty of framing State legislation to suit
communities so widely differing in interests as
the northern and southern portions of Califor-
nia; questions of local inequalities and injus-
tices in taxation ; the undue centering of State
institutions, and expenditure of State moneys
in the San Francisco Bay counties — although
the people of Southern California are ceasing
to care about this : they say they prefer now to
wait, and build up their own institutions; the
difficulty of gaining any influence in Congress,
and of securing Government aid for harbor im-
provements and public works ; the desire to be
free from the controlling and corrupting influ-
ence of San Francisco in State politics — for the
new State would be essentially an agricultural
and pastoral State, without any one great city
within its borders to overshadow with its influ-
ence the purer vote of the country.

Another, and strong, consideration is the
legal relations of the new railroad system which
must enter Southern California from the East.

A CHINA SEA TYPHOON.

127

These, however, are questions of minor im-
portance. The great reasons are, as I have
stated, the feeling that geographically we are
separated ; that the mountains have divided
us ; that we are a different people, different in
pursuits, in tastes, in manner of thought and
manner of life ; that our hopes and aspirations
for the future are different ; and that commer-
cially we belong to a distinct and separate sys-
tem, and must work out our business future for
ourselves. People have not forgotten the days
when the easy grades brought the trade from a
quarter of a continent to the sea at San Pedro.

It is only fair in discussing the question of
division to state the reasons which may be
urged against such a step. Among the people
here I have heard only one point raised — not
against the division, but whether the popula-
tion and wealth of Southern California will yet
justify the step. It is conceded to be only a
question of time; the doubt has been solely
whether the time is yet fully come. Each year,
however, is depriving this objection more and
more of its force, and, with the rapid influx of
wealth and population which will follow the

completion of the southern transcontinental sys-
tem of roads, the time must shortly come when
such an objection can no longer be raised.

In conclusion, it is well for the people of the
State to begin to face this subject. In South-
ern California it is not merely an idle abstrac-
tion. The people are looking forward earnestly
to it. And when the time comes there will be
no tie to sever except the strictly legal one ; for
this people, as I before said, look upon them-
selves not as Californians, but as Southern Cal-
ifornians. They have never surrendered their
separate intellectual and social life. They have
kept independent of San Francisco. They are
building up their own institutions of learning.
They form their own society.

As yet I have found no feeling of bitterness
in this question. If bitterness arise, it will not
be of our begetting. The only feeling is that
for the future our ways lie asunder, and, as
friends who have journeyed together, but who
have now come to the parting of the road, we
would shake hands, bid each other God speed,
and each go his own way in peace.

J. P. WIDNEY.

A CHINA SEA TYPHOON.

It is now twenty years since a splendid clip-
per ship lay at anchor off the Pagoda, a few
miles below the city of Foo Chow Foo, on the
River Min. The last chests of tea were going
on board. The sails were bent, every rope was
in its place, and the ship was "ready for sea."
A noble vessel she was, with lofty spread of
canvas, and lines the symmetry of which at once
proved to the nautical expert that she deserved
the reputation for speed acquired 'during her
previous career; and, what was better than
speed, she had always been "a lucky ship."

"All cargo on board, sir, and seventy tons
space in main hatch," reported the chief officer.
He was ordered to "block off," and thus we
sailed, drawing twenty-one feet six inches, with
a cargo of new crop fancy brands of tea for the
London market, insured for £ 120,000, refusing
freight needed to fill the ship because we could
get no additional insurance thereon in China,
and no ocean cable was then available whereby
it could have been placed in London.

On the 4th of August, 1860, the order was
given, "All hands up anchor," and we slowly
dropped down the tortuous River Min, narrow,
but deep, reaching its mouth on the 6th of Au-

gust, and there discharging our four Chinese
pilots, with every appearance of fine weather,
although one of the almond-eyed mariners re-
marked to me just before he went over the side,
"Two, three day you catchee typhoon* — no likee
topside." And he proved a true prophet, al-
though the barometer then gave no sign. The
shores of China faded in the dim distance, and
our long homeward journey was commenced.
With such a splendid ship, with a picked crew,
"homeward bound," we commenced our voyage
gladly, for we had tired of China and the Chi-
nese.

With a fresh north-east monsoon we headed
for the north end of Formosa, with every indi-
cation of easily weathering it, so that we could
stand out of the China Sea, to avoid the south-
west monsoon already blowing at its southern
extreme. By 1 1 A. M. of the yth, the weather
commenced to look ugly, and the barometer,
that faithful guide to the intelligent navigator,
commenced its silent warning by dropping slow-
ly and steadily. In the eastern horizen, whither
we were heading, a dense bank of heavy, leaden

Chinese— Typhoon, or Tyfoong( great wind).

128

THE CALIFORNIA^.

colored clouds warned us to beware, and from
the upper edge of this cloud -bank feathery,
fleecy streamers detached themselves, moving
with lightning rapidity to the northward. The
ship, under double reefs, moved with a quick,
nervous, and uneasy motion over a sea which,
while not very high, ran without regularity of
speed or motion. We knew that we were "in
for it," and made every preparation. All light
yards and studding-sail booms were sent down,
sails were furled with "cross -gaskets," ports
were opened to let the water run off the decks,
hatches battened down, spare spars were double
lashed, and everything that a sailor's experience
could suggest was done to prepare our ship for
the ordeal we felt was in store for her. We had
ample time and warning. By IIP. M., we were
in a heavy gale, dragging under close -reefed
top-sails and storm stay-sails, with a furious sea
running. At this time, as we were fairly enter-
ing the radius of the cyclone, an occasional
sharp flash of vivid lightning could be seen
through the driving rain, followed by muttering
thunder in the distance, both which phenomena
were absent after we neared the vortex of the
storm. By midnight the barometer had fallen
to 28.60, and was rapidly dropping. By i A.
M. of August 8th, it was blowing furiously, but
thus far our noble ship made no sign. Her
light cargo made her as buoyant as a cork, and
although she had at times five .feet of water on
deck, she would rise to the sea and shake the
water from her like a half drowned water-dog.
At i : 30 A. M. of the Qth, the fore top-mast storm
stay-sail blew out of the bolt-ropes, and a quar-
ter of an hour later the main storm try -sail fol-
lowed, both new sails going to ribbons with the
report of a cannon, close aboard. We then
took in our close -reefed mizzen top -sail, fortu-
nately saving it. At 2 .-40 A. M., the close-reefed
fore top -sail blew away, and we decided to try
and save the main top-sail ; but we had waited
too long. When the weather-sheet was started
it went out of existence like a flash, with a re-
port which sounded for an instant above the
roaring of the hurricane. We were thus "lay-
ing to under bare poles ; " barometer at 5 A. M.,
28.22, and still falling. By 4 A. M., we were
feeling the fury of the typhoon; barometer
27.65. Successive seas had stove in our bul-
warks, and at times the ship would go under
forward to her foremast with such violence that
I could not but ask myself, when, quivering in
every timber, she recovered herself for another
plunge, how much deeper she could go and
come to the surface again. Meanwhile the
wind had hauled easterly, heading us off, and
we were on a lee-shore off the north-east end
of the Island of Formosa. For a few hours

there was no prospect of saving the ship. A
rock -bound lee -shore in a hurricane is bad
enough, but the additional certainty that if, by
a happy chance, any of us reached the shore
alive, we should have our throats cut -by the
savage aborigines inhabiting that part of For-
mosa, was not cheering. But the ship demand-
ed my attention, and gave me little time to
think of personal peril.

At 4:30 A. M., I witnessed for the first time,
during a sea service of sixteen years, the full
force of a "China Sea typhoon." Its violence
was awful, its fury indescribable! The Om-
nipotent appeared to have concentrated His
strength in one mighty effort to manifest His
power! To hear a human voice, even with
the aid of a trumpet, was impossible, and we
looked aloft in astonishment to see the work
of human hands withstand such power. The
hurricane roared like a mighty cataract, and
while one imagined that it was blowing as
hard as it could, a -sudden blast would strike
the ship, sounding like a park of artillery fired
under our ears. During this part of the ty-
phoon our ship lay with her lee -rail to the
water, and comparatively easy, as the immense
violence of the hurricane had "flattened down"
the sea, which was feather-white as far as the
eye could reach, and this was not far, for the
atmosphere was full of "spoon-drift" — flying
foam, taken from the tops of the waves in
white sheets, and hurled through the air with
such violence that one could only keep his
eyes open by looking to leeward. Moment-
arily expecting the masts to go over the side,
we stood, helplessly lashed on deck, awed at
the sublimity of the scene.

The hurricane expended its utmost violence
in about two hours, and by 6 : 30 A. M. we could
notice a diminished violence in the gusts, and
the sea was again rising, more dangerous even
than the hurricane, for such a confused cross-
sea I never witnessed, and our ship labored
heavily, frequently with hundreds of tons of
water on deck, moving with such violence that
it was impossible to stand without a firm grip
on something stationary.

Morning dawned dark, gloomy, and tempest-
uous, with a tremendous sea running, but the
vortex of the storm had passed, and the barom-
eter had stopped its downward course. We
were still on a lee -shore however, and as the
wind had gradually headed us off, the sea was
doubly dangerous. We decided to "wear ship,"
if such a thing were possible, under bare poles.
The crew were placed at their stations, and they
fully understood the dangerous character of the
maneuver we were about to attempt, feeling that
therein lay our only hope. The helm was grad-

SWINBURNE ON ART AND LIFE.

129

ually put up, and as the squared after-yards felt
the blast our noble ship started ahead like a
frighted deer, and was off before it like light-
ning, with her head pointed toward the iron-
bound coast under our lee. Watching closely
for an interval between the blasts, and with a
sharp eye on the tremendous sea running, our
ship was gradually brought to the wind on the
off- shore tack, heading the sea, and thus ena-
bled to surmount it more easily.

At this time, 8:30 A. M., occasional patches
of blue sky could be seen overhead, across
which feathery thin streamers of cloud passed
with lightning speed; a tremendous sea was
still running, and a furious gale blowing. The
barometer, to our delight, commenced to rise
very slowly, and we felt that, unless knocked
on our beam-ends by an unlucky sea, we could
pass through the storm in safety. A test of our
pumps showed that the ship was "as tight as a
bottle."

By 10 A. M. of Augusth 8th, the gale had sen-
sibly abated, and we were able to replace our
storm -sails gradually, having the ship under
close reefed top-sails by noon, when the weather
cleared up, and we could see, happily astern of
us, the rugged coast of the Island of Formosa,
distant about fifteen miles. It looked verily a

terra inhospitalis, and over its rugged mount-
ains the Storm King held high revel, for the
dense bank of clouds, with the flying scud over
them, clearly marked the progress of the cyclone
on its way to the Chinese coast. It had been
an unwelcome visitor, and we were glad to see
it leaving us, for it had given us a near call !

By 4 o'clock P. M., we had our ship under
single-reefed top-sails, and were repairing dam-
ages, although when we finally reached Lon-
don some of the scars of that contest were still
visible. Eleven passages around Cape Horn,
five around the Cape of Good Hope, and many
winter passages across the stormy North At-
lantic, have failed to furnish another such ex-
perience. I close the journal from which I have
copied with a feeling of satisfaction that during
a sea -life of sixteen years I have had one op-
portunity to observe how hard it can blow, and
what severe contests with the elements a good
ship, well manned, can pass through with im-
punity.

"What became of the ship?" The banner
of St. George now flies at her peak. Over
the Southern Ocean, in the English-Australian
trade, she still doefcher full duty, driven from
our flag by too onerous taxation.

WM. LAWRENCE MERRY.

SWINBURNE ON ART AND LIFE.

Mr. Swinburne is a defender of the doctrine
of art for art's sake. He can make no terms
with those who think that "to live well is really
better than to write or paint well, and a noble
action more valuable than the greatest poem or
most perfect picture." To him art and moral-
ity are forever separate, and their followers
occupy hostile camps. "Handmaid of relig-
ion, exponent of duty, servant of fact, pioneer
of morality, art cannot in any way become."
"There never was or can have been a time
when art indulged in the deleterious appetite
of saving souls or helping humanity in general
along the way of labor and progress." In other
words, art and the subject which it embodies
are entirely distinct — the one may be perfect,
however repulsive the other.

That Mr. Swinburne should insist on this
separation is not, perhaps, altogether surpris-
ing. The doctrine is in perfect harmony with
other tendencies of the times. The German
pessimist, Arthur Schopenhauer, with ill con-
cealed disgust at the discovery that he is not

the Creator, condemns the world as the most
wretched contrivance imaginable. In like man-
ner, Mr. Swinburne, in his anger that the love
of beauty should ever have suffered at the rude
hands of Puritanism, denies all possible con-
nection between art and morals. Each view is
extreme, and proceeds from a reaction against
previous exaggeration in an opposite direction.
But no abhorrence of asceticism can be suffi-
cient excuse for a doctrine which would lead to
the worst consequences in life. Least of all are
such views to be tolerated at a time when to
establish a rule of conduct, and to obey it — at
all times the gravest work of man — becomes
doubly solemn and momentous in view of the
weakness, in certain quarters, of traditional
beliefs.

Mr. Swinburne's doctrine, however, cannot
withstand the most moderate test. Essentially
beyond the uninitiated, designed for those su-
perior spirits who, under high pressure, are
capable of enjoying moments of supreme de-
light, the doctrine — art for art's sake — involves

130

THE CALIFORNIA^.

a confusion of thought to which nothing but the
intoxication of those moments could have blind-,
ed its supporters. To assert that art is to be
cherished for what it is, and not for what it ex-
presses, is to insist upon a distinction precisely
analogous to that of the metaphysicians, who
for a long tjme made their own consciousness
the measure of the universe, and thought it un-
necessary for knowledge that there should be
anything to be known, so long as there was
anybody to know ! To talk of distinguishing
art from the subject which it expresses, is as
absurd as to propose to take away the con-
cavity of a line and leave its convexity. That
the subject is noble does not, it is true, neces-
sarily involve the excellence of the art; but that
the subject is base, not only implies the degra-
dation of the artist, but ultimately leads to the
degradation of his work. Art is always the
expression of the character of the artist ; and
great art, like all great work, implies great
character. This does not mean that the artist
must have a didactic purpose and make the
teaching of morality the end of his work; but
it means that the artistic sense must be sup-
plemented by that moral temper which alone
can give to its expression me enduring quality
of perfected form. It is for the artist not only
to perceive the beautiful, but also to make it
manifest to those who lack his faculty of vision;
and this task demands a power of expression,
a mastery of the implements of his art, which
moral excellence alone can give. Without this,
faultless workmanship is unattainable; and if
the degradation of sensuality be present, the
work through its imperfect execution loses in
aesthetic value, and fails to exhibit those qual-
ities which give the art of the man of unim-
paired character a beauty, which, in its enno-
bling influence, is moral.

But these conclusions are still open to eva-
sion. Mr. Swinburne would no doubt readily
admit that, in so far as a base subject does in-
volve a degradation which will weaken the ar-
tist's power of execution, art and morality are
interdependent ; but, he would retort, who shall
say that a base subject and a degraded charac-
ter are necessary companions? Is the artist
bound to govern his work by the ignorance of
the multitude, and so to refrain from depicting
passions the representation of which seems in
their eyes indecent and immoral, though to him
they are "sacred," like all else that is human?
This specious argument cannot save the doc-
trine. It is sad to be compelled to deny any-
thing to that which has been so often maltreat-
ed as genius; but there are, nevertheless, cer-
tain matters which even this age, with all its
love of invention, rightly believes to be estab-

lished beyond the possibility of improvement.
Among them is the determination of the rela-
tive superiority of the human faculties. Error
has undoubtedly been committed in cultivating
the intellect to the neglect of the senses; but
the superiority of the intellect over the passions
which man has in common with brutes, needs
not the experience of any previous age to give
it certainty. And genius, so long as human,
cannot, without self-destruction, exalt what is
debased for all mankind. When men exclaim
that all the earth wears the beauty of holiness,
and pretend, like Walt Whitman, to consecrate
each single atom of growth and of decay, it is
quite as fair to suppose that their cries proceed
from an ignorance of what is beautiful as from
the discovery of any strange potency in vileness.

There is still a higher ground for the rejec-
tion of Mr. Swinburne's doctrine. "Art for art's
sake" is laid down as a guiding principle of
work — indeed, of that highest work which, from
Homer to Tennyson, from Phidias to Michael
Angelo, has been charged with the expression
of all that is noblest in man. But a rule of
work, or of conduct, or of any human action,
must rest upon our conception of man's true re-
lation to the universe. If we believe the world
to be under a curse, it may not be improper for
us to live a life of atonement and torture of the
flesh. If we believe that the highest motives to
action are the hope of heaven or the fear of hell,
it will scarcely be inconsistent in us to make in-
dividual, selfish advantage the ground of doing
good or of abstaining from evil. But if we be-
lieve that on this planet man must look for hap-
piness, our highest motive will be to live for
others, This is the principle denied by Mr.
Swinburne and affirmed by science.

According to Mr. Swinburne, life is but "an
interval, and then our place knows us no more.
Some spend this interval in listlessness, some in
high passions, the wisest in art and song. For
our chance is in expanding that interval, in get-
ting as many pulsations as possible into the
given time. High passions give one this quick-
ened sense of life. Only be sure it is passion,
that it does yield you this fruit of a quickened,
multiplied consciousness. Of this wisdom, the
poetic passion, the desire of beauty, the love of
art for art's sake, has most; for art comes to
you professing frankly to give nothing but the
highest quality to your moments, and simply
for those moments' sake." That is Mr. Swin-
burne's doctrine — "the highest quality to your
moments, and simply for those moments' sake"
— a doctrine which carries selfish gratification
to the sensual level of the beast in the field.

Science, on the other hand, disproves the ex-
istence of that human isolation which makes it

A PESCADERO PEBBLE.

indifferent what the individual does, so long as
he interferes not with the existence of others.
The right, the imperative duty, of the individ-
ual to attain his own highest development, has
its assurance — nay, its sanction — in all that sci-
ence teaches. But "it is a universal law of the
organic world," as the late Mr. Chauncey Wright
has said, "and a necessary consequence of nat-
ural selection, that the individual comprises in
its nature chiefly what is useful to the race, and
only incidentally what is useful to itself, since
it is the race, and not the individual, that en-
dures or is preserved." Side by side, then, with
its recognition of individualism, science asserts
the "unity of all," and affirms that every man
is what he is by virtue of his relation to all
other men. This intersection of conflicting ten-
dencies must, by necessity, be manifest in every
stage of the development of society ; and in the
civilization of to - day we see it in the fact of a
high degree of individualism co- existing with
the need, imposed by the complexity of life, of
the widest cooperation. In conduct, in work,
these mutually opposed elements must be made
to coalesce, and the fusion of the two into one
is possible only through the recognition of un-
selfishness as the supreme guide of action. Be
selfish in order to be unselfish is the command of
science. Be selfish for the sake of the delights
of selfishness is the precept of Mr. Swinburne.

I reject, therefore, his doctrine of art for art's
sake, not only for its confusion of thought, for
its degradation of both art and artist, but also
as a principle of action which rests on the gross-
est misconception of man's relation to the uni-
verse. It involves a "barbaric conception of
dignity," a deification of self, which, after what
Copernicus, and, above all, what Darwin has
taught us, is intolerable. All work, all wisdom,
is valuable only for what it adds to the happi-
ness of mankind, and civilization means only
the eradication of selfishness. But with Mr.
Swinburne's doctrine, disinterestedness is im-
possible. It acknowledges no debt to the past,
professes no care for the future ; and it sets up
a dangerous principle of work which it would
be only too easy to transfer to all branches of
human activity. We should thus recognize as
an established Power that selfishness which, in
political and in social life, is even now every-
where belligerent; which has already caused
the instinct of the statesman to transform itself
into the appetite of the harpy, and has driven
farther and farther away the hope of hearing
many men unite in teaching, with Carlyle,
"Thou wilt never sell thy Life, or any part of
thy Life, in a satisfactory manner. Give it, like
a royal heart. Let the price be Nothing : thou
hast then in a certain sense got all for it."

ALFRED A. WHEELER.

A PESCADERO PEBBLE.

It was only a bit of rose-pink carnelian, wave-
worn to a perfect oval, and holding in its trans-
lucent depths a gleam almost jewel -like in lus-
ter; but the palm of the little hand in which it
lay was as delicately molded and as rosy -pink
as itself; and when the owner of the palm, look-
ing up from under her broad beach -hat with a
charming air of confidence in his sympathy,
asked Mr. Bradford, "Isrit it lovely?" it was
small wonder that he, being half artist and
wholly human, and taking into his survey, be-
sides the pebble, the whole dainty figure in its
blue yachting-suit, crowned by a rose-bud face
lit by sweet brown eyes, shpuld answer quite as
fervently as she expected.

"It is, indeed, very lovely."

If his reply had reference only to the car-
nelian it was rather a generous concession on
his part, for, though Pescadero pebbles are rare
and lovely, they can hardly be of absorbing

interest to a man who had bartered with Cin-
galese pearl-divers for their choicest "finds,"
had hunted for moon -stones and white sap-
phires under fierce Indian suns, had braved
many a wild Baltic storm with the hardy gath-
erers of yellow amber, and had fought less suc-
cessfully, if not less gallantly, for the rarer
and lovelier blue amber against the rapacity
of bronzed Catanian Jews.

But, whether he praised the pebble for its
own pink beauty, or with a mental reservation
in favor of the fair maid who held it, there he
lay, in true Pescadero fashion — six feet of gray
tweed stretched at full length along the beach
— poking over the multi - colored gravel with a
shapely sun-browned hand, occasionally hold-
ing up a bright bit for Miss Brenton's inspec-
tion, and talking to her, the while, of strange
shores on the farther side of the blue water
whose white crests slipped so gently up the

132

THE CALIFORNIAN.

shore and broke in soft and rhythmic murmurs
at their feet.

Miss Brenton was a good listener, having
learned, during her short life, some valuable les-
sons in the art of putting herself in the back-
ground. Indeed, for a young lady who had
recently been graduated with many honors and
yards of white organdie at a fashionable sem-
inary, and who awaited only the coming season
for her introduction into a brilliant San Fran-
cisco circle, she retained her native modesty
and lack of self-consciousness in a very credit-
able degree. So, with a few well put questions
and a large amount of appreciative silence, she
had completely charmed away the slight film
of cool indifference with which Mr. Bradford
liked to believe that he concealed from the
world a naturally enthusiastic character, and it
was hard to say which of the two enjoyed
most his charming talk of his wandering dur-
ing some months before in Oriental lands.

But salt air begets appetite, and a delightful
drive along a tree-lined mountain road in Java,
behind half a dozen pairs of the little native
ponies, was not disagreeably interrupted by the
shrill cries of "Lunch!" and "Chowder!" which
rose above the soft booming of the waves. Then
a querulous voice called :

"Pauline, dear, do come and help me."

And Miss Brenton and Mr. Bradford hasten-
ed toward two elderly ladies, who, seated upon
carriage-robes out of reach of the waves, had
been comfortably "picking pebbles" under the
shadow of a great umbrella. Miss Brenton took
possession of a rather faded, artificial looking
little person, whose numerous belongings were
widely scattered ; but Pauline successfully res-
cued her veil from the wind, her bottle of peb-
bles from overturning, and her shawl and um-
brella from other disasters, while she offered
her arm, saying, cheerily :

" I suppose you're quite ready for this famous
chowder, Aunt Nellie?"

" Oh, dear, yes, and half famished for the last
hour," grumbled Aunt Nellie; "and now we've
got to cross this dreadful beach that nearly
covers one's feet at every step. I've fifty peb-
bles, at least, in my boots now. I'm sure I
can't see why they spread the lunch away up
under that bluff!"

"That's because the tide is coming in, and
you wouldn't relish salt water in your chowder,
you know, auntie."

"Well, I dare say they have made the tea of
salt water, because where are they to get any
other?"

"Oh, I fancy they wouldn't forget that part
of it. I saw two great demijohns in the wagon,
so I think your tea will be all right."

And so at last they reached the bluff, where
Aunt Nellie was seated upon a drift-wood log,
after a deal more of the same sort of complaint.

Meantime, Mr. Bradford, unmindful neither
of the aunt's exigeance nor of the niece's pa-
tience therewith, had appropriated the other
old lady, a stately little woman, whose sweet
face, crowned with its puffs of silvery white
hair, was, so far in the young man's life, the
dearest face in the world to him. Under the
cliff arose the blue smoke of a drift-wood fire,
and near it stood a rude table, and toward this
people were coming from all over the little cove,
for this was a field-day at the beach; and in-
stead of the usual private and exclusive baskets
of cold lunch, there was to be a chowder, made
under the immediate supervision of a distin-
guished epicure from "the city," with Mrs.
Swanton as assistant. The season was a good
one, Swanton House and outlying cottages be-
ing full to overflowing, and more than the usual
spirit of good feeling and camaraderie seemed
to exist among the guests. So there had been
surf-fishers out since early morning, and a mag-
nificent catch of red and blue rock-cod — worthy,
in their silvery beauty, of a Brookes to immor-
talize them — was slowly simmering itself into a
most toothsome mixture, while an aroma of hot
tea and coffee, and a subdued popping of corks,
added to the conviviality of a very successful
day.

After lunch, there was more pebble - hunting,
and much scrambling over rocks and cliffs in
search of the dainty wild-flowers '(and hardy,
sweet little strawberries that grow on the breezy
uplands above the bluff.

But for Pauline there was little more hilarity
of any sort, for Mrs. Hasbrook grew more ex-
acting as she waxed weary, and her unreasona-
ble and unreasoning demands upon the girl's
strength and patience were aggravating to
hear. But Pauline was equal to the occasion
in her own cheery fashion, never dreaming
that she was a martyr; and if she did think
once or twice how very pleasant it would be
to stroll with Mr. Bradford and his mother at
the top of the cliff, she stifled the fancy as in-
gratitude, for it was quite evident that Aunt
Nellie was "coming down" with a sick head-
ache, and so, of course, not responsible for her
ill nature. In fact, Pauline Brenton wasted
all her opportunities for being miserable in
the most provoking" way.

"So exasperatingly cheerful !" complained her
room-mate at school, who never exasperated
anybody with her cheerfulness.

"Such a rest, such a comfort, as you have
been !" whispered the teacher who had charge
of her division, when, just before the commence-

A PESCADERO PEBBLE.

ment exercises, Pauline came to her in all her
white beauty for a last little "talk."

And so when she came home to Aunt Nel-
lie— Aunt Nellie with her pet sick -headaches,
which were an affliction to herself and an in-
fliction to her friends, her querulous temper,
and her gift for fault-finding — Pauline, I believe,
was not a bit discouraged.

There had been in Mrs. Hasbrook's early
life some of those crushing sorrows from which
the spirit rises once, perhaps, in a thousand
times, triumphant over earthly ills, to live there-
after in an atmosphere already half heavenly ;
but more often there remains but the poor, spir-
itless shadow of the former self to fight the bat-
tle with the world, the flesh, and the devil, in a
weakened and half- conquered fashion. Mrs.
Hasbrook was weak enough in body and spirit,
and her small vanities had been fostered by the
possession of an ample fortune; but, among a
number of good deeds which I am sure the re-
cording angel was glad to place to her credit,
not the least was the taking of little orphaned
Pauline Brenton to her heart and home. Home
and love and education she had given her, and
Pauline had grown in graces of body and mind,
and had cultivated in the genial soil of her nat-
ure an old-fashioned flower we call gratitude,
and its blossoms, uncommon enough in these
days, crowned this rather stylish and modern
young lady with a rare and old-time grace.

Truth to tell, Mrs. Hasbrook had some brill-
iant projects in view for the future of the niece
who was rewarding her fostering care so well,
and her day-dreams were often of the time
when, after a brilliant season or two in Califor-
nia, they two should go abroad — to "dear, de-
lightful Paris," of course ; and, having in fancy
once crossed the Atlantic, she found it easy
also in fancy to gain a foothold in the very
citadel of the ancien regime, and, after a gor-
geous campaign in costumes from Worth and
Pingat, accompanied by unlimited diamonds,
she always, in these bright visions, married
Pauline to a nobleman — nothing less than the
bluest blood would do; for Aunt Nellie, like
many very good and very wealthy Californians,
though a native republican, was, au fond, the
fiercest of aristocrats. As for the money, she
would reflect with a shrug of satisfaction, that
did not matter. She had always intended those
shares of Segregated Maryland and that gold
mine in Amador for Pauline's dot, and she
rather fancied they would offset several gallons
of blue blood.

But often, alas, the old lady would arouse from
these roseate reflections tofind unconscious Pau-
line singing away at some plebeian employment
— perhaps the mending of her own dainty silk-

VOL. III.- 9.

en hose, or the concoction of a delectable des-
sert— in such utter unconcern for this brilliant
future of hers that the dreamer of dreams would
feel herself to be a much injured party, and
would therefore render herself so obnoxious
for the rest of the day that poor Pauline, uncon-
scious of offense, could only, in charity, lay the
blame at the door of her b&te noire, the sick-
headache.

For, with uncommon good sense, Mrs. Has-
brook had not as yet imparted these wonderful
schemes to her niece, who, being fond of her
books, her music, her pets, and even of her lov-
ing services to her aunt, had not yet begun to
trouble her small head about fortunes or hus-
bands, or any of the more serious matters of
life.

While I have been telling you all this, Mrs.
Bradford and her son have been enjoying their
stroll at the top of the cliff, watching the groups
of busy people, breathing the salt, sweet air, and
talking together with a loving confidence that
nothing has ever yet interrupted.

"So, little mother," Bradford was saying,
"you like Pescadero?"

"Indeed I do, Bruce. It is restful and quiet
here, and, after the regular California round, so
refreshing not to be called upon constantly to
admire something that is higher or deeper or
larger than anything else of its kind in the known
world."

"That's so," said Bradford, with a laugh. "I
knew there was a charm about it, though I
couldn't have expressed it so well. Nice peo-
ple here, too. Don't you like little Miss Bren-
ton?"

"Yes"— emphatically. "She is a dear girl-
quite one of the old-fashioned sort ; but, Bruce,
she's a martyr. I should be glad to pull her
worldly little aunt's blonde curls for her aggra-
vating ways with the poor child."

"Come, come, Dona Quixote, don't you go
tilting at a wind-mill. I can't see that the 'poor
child' pines much under the treatment. In
fact, she's quite blooming, and Coleman, of
San Francisco, tells me that Mrs. Hasbrook
has done everything for her."

"And well she may. The young lady will be
a great credit to her socially, and is a perfect
slave to her caprices, and — oh, Bruce, how love-
ly those cloud -shadows are drifting over the
water, and what a wide and lovely view we have
here!"

And so it was. Landward the hills, yellow
with barley, blue with the bloom of the flax, or
brown with recent plowing, rose and softly
swelled into the mountains of the Coast Range,
whose utmost hights, crowned with somber red-
woods, fringed the blue and lofty sky-line. Sea-

134

THE CALIFORNIAN.

ward there was nothing to break the wide ex-
panse of amethystine sea, save when a great
steamer passed noiselessly on her way to the
Orient. And over all this glorious chord of
color drifted the constant cloud-shadows of the
broken and slowly gathering fog. After a little
pause, Mrs. Bradford said :

"I suppose, Bruce, dear, you look for the
Lawrences soon?"

"Yes. Lawrence told me they would be down
the last of the month," and a long breath, that
sounded uncommonly like a sigh of impatience,
finished the sentence.

"Miss Lawrence is a very fine young lady,
Bruce ?" — interrogatively.

" Very " — concisely.

"And they have been very kind to us."

"Certainly; why not, dear?" lighting a fresh
cigar.

"And we must show them all the attention
we can, you know, when they come."

"Of course, madame mere, I shall be as civil
as possible."

"But— Bruce— "

' "Well, go on, mother. You seem uncom-
monly bashful," with never a look at the blue
eyes trying so hard to find his.

"Well" — desperately — "you won't be too civil,
now, Bruce, will you?"

With an amused laugh, he looked down at
his poor little victim, and said, saucily :

"You jealous old person ! I believe you don't
want me to admire anybody but you. But don't
you fear, mother mine — at least not in that quar-
ter. Of course, as our banker on this side of
the world, Lawrence has been very kind to us,
and his wife and daughter also ; but, though I
don't like to say it, I fancy it is very much a
matter of dollars and cents, and I have a feel-
ing that the polish in that family is a sort of top-
dressing, as the farmers say. I fear some day
we shall see the ugly sub-soil crop up in a very
disagreeable way. But come; there are the
wagons, and I want you to have a comfortable
seat."

After that day at the beach there followed
many others, each with its charm of out -door
life. Mr. Bradford and his mother, though so
devoted to each other, had, apparently, no objec-
tion to a quartet, since Mrs. Hasbrook and her
niece were nearly always of their party. There
were long, still days up in the heart of the Red-
woods, where the Pescadero, coming down from
the mountains, had worn for itself a lovely path ;
past the gray and lichened rocks ; under giant
stems of redwood and fragrant branches of aza-
lea, ceanothus, and madrono ; where the trout
darted through sun-streaked shallows or rested
in sherry-brown pools; down, still down, through

the sunny ranch -lands, past the village, and so
out to sea.

Other days were spent under far - spreading
branches of century-old laurels, which grew on
the banks of a little tributary of the Pescadero.
Here they spread their simple lunch, and read,
or talked, or wandered through well kept fields
and orchards, till the sun threw long afternoon
shafts of yellow light athwart the branches, or
the fog rolled in to drive them home. Some-
times they followed the Butano far up into the
fern-loved forest, where the brake grew almost
like palm trees, and the dainty maiden -hair
ferns, nourished and protected through all the
year, spread their branches far out over the
water where it fell in sparkling cascades into a
crystal green pool. Oftenest of all they sought
the sea — sometimes at the pebble beach ; some-
times where the Butano and Pescadero go out
together in a broad estuary to the ocean, and
where salmon-trout and perch abound ; or, far-
ther down, at Pigeon Point, where long ago on
the unfriendly reefs the Carrier Pigeon went to
pieces — but always they four together, the elder
ones tolerating each other till toleration grew
into a certain friendliness, the younger ones
learning slowly, and of course delightfully, to
do much more than tolerate each other. But
this old -new lesson of loving, to be perfect,
must be blindly learned ; so these two were for
many a long day unconscious of the part they
were conning. Pauline only knew that never
before had there been so perfect a summer, that
the birds sung and the sun shone as in no other
year of her life, and that no other valley that
wound its sweet, wild way from the heart of the
Coast Range down to the sea was half so lovely
as that of the Pescadero.

Bradford had drifted down the days and the
weeks lazily enough, taking, as was his philo-
sophical way, all possible pleasure and profit
from all possible people and circumstances. If
he sometimes fretted at his self- imposed inac-
tion, and longed for the busy life of a loved
profession once more, his mother never knew
it, but he was surprised at himself one day for
being piqued into self-justification to Miss
Brenton. She had expressed great admiration
for some incident of manly energy, and Brad-
ford found himself all at once in the middle of
an explanation.

"My mother," said he, "was ordered a year's
travel by her physician. I can hardly tell you,
Miss Pauline, of all the opportunities I sacri-
ficed when I left my business to take care of
itself. 1 fear you think me a very lazy fellow,
but indeed I love work — love it for its own sake
and for what it brings, too; but I am deter-
mined the dear old lady shall not have her en-

A PESCADERO PEBBLE.

joyment clouded by a single thought of sacri-
fice on my part. This fall finishes our year,
and I am taking her home so much improved
in health that I am well repaid."

"Ah," said Pauline, with an appreciative look,
"but such inaction as that is better and grand-
er than any year's work you have ever done."

If Mr. Bradford had had his mind's eye as
wide open as usual, he might have suspected
that his satisfaction at Pauline's reply was more
intense than that he usually felt at the approval
of his lady friends ; but it was another day that
was to open his eyes to a new fact in his exist-
ence.

On this day they had all gone to the beach —
Aunt Nellie at first having declared she would
not, but having finally yielded, like so many
others, to the indescribable fascinations that
those elusive pebbles possess. At first glance,
lying upon the Pescadero beach, with the May
sunshine all about you, soft Pacific airs blowing
over you, and nothing to do but glean the rarest
and loveliest pebbles, seems as near dolce far
niente as anything in this disappointing world
can. But try it all day; lean upon one elbow
till it is damp with salt water and blistered by
the friction of the gravel, till your spine aches
with the unnatural position and your lips are
parched with thirst, while the water -jug stands
rods away under the cliff in aggravating cool-
ness, and all about you people are finding lovely
pink or red carnelians, bits of translucent am-
ber-colored quartz, and "opals" which almost
equal the genuine in their fire and luster, while
your fingers, poke as they may, bring up only
the commonest brown or black gravel-stones —
and see if you do not go back to the hotel at
night, tired, cross, and firmly determined to
spend the remainder of your time hunting ferns
in the Pescadero woods or trout in the Pesca-
dero waters, leaving the beach to those who
like it. Yet, after you have bathed and dined,
and come out upon the twilight haunted porch,
or, if the fog has come in, to the hotel parlor
with its blazing live-oak fire, where people are
exhibiting and expatiating upon the day's treas-
ure-trove, you are once more fascinated, and
the small miseries of the past are forgotten in
an avaricious desire to outstrip the others. And
when the morning comes, and the great omni-
bus dashes up to receive its indiscriminate load
of young and old, lunch-baskets and surf-lines,
pet dogs and babies, you are one of the first and
fiercest; and with your wide -mouthed bottle
clutched tightly in your hand you are off, leav-
ing Pescadero woods and waters to keep their
treasures for another day, while you have one
more "try" for that ideal pebble, which, every
time you closed your eyes last night, stood out

against the dark in all its beautiful and elusive
perfection.

Aunt Nellie, after many false starts, had at
last got herself settled to her apparent satisfac-
tion ; and Pauline, seeing her so contented and
that Mr. Bradford and his mother were near,
said to her :

"Auntie, I've a fancy for going up the shore
a little way, if you don't mind."

Auntie was aggrieved at once.

"Well, I suppose you can, my dear, if you
wish ; but, before you go, just bring me a cup
of water, and — fasten a pin in this veil, and I'm
sure the tide will be up soon, and I shall have
to move — oh, dear ! you've upset that bottle."

Pauline, with a comical look of dismay, was
about to give up her little walk, when all at
once Mrs. Hasbrook found her bottle right
side up, and a cup of water at her very lips,
while Mr. Bradford was saying, quietly :

"If you will allow me, Mrs. Hasbrook, I'll
see that you are quite comfortable, and I'm
sure the walk will do Miss Brenton good."

"Of course," said Aunt Nellie, with a hal/
sense of her own absurdity, " I shall get along
very well, I've no doubt. I'm afraid," she add-
ed, plaintively, as Pauline went gratefully off,
"I'm afraid I'm a little exacting with Pauline;
still, I think it's for her good."

What Mr. Bradford might have thought about
that he did not say ; but he took such good care
of Aunt Nellie that she was quite happy and
cheerful till the tide really did begin to come
in, and then she began to worry about Pau-
line. She was quite sure she would either be
drowned or get her feet wet — one disaster be-
ing, apparently, quite as deplorable as the
other. Mr. Bradford, with praiseworthy alac-
rity, offered to go in search of the truant,
which offer being accepted, he was off.

Pauline had not wandered far. A little cove,
where the rocks shut out everything but the
blue water, had attracted her, and happy in the
possession of a fascinating book — it was the
Strange Adventures of a Phaeton — she had
yielded to a delicious feeling of laziness, and,
lying at ease, with as sweet and salt an air
about her as ever blew over the Hebrides, and
a sea and sky before her that William Black
would have loved to picture, she fell into a
dreamful sleep, in which she was "Bell," and
the blonde head of Mr. Bradford did duty as
the " Lieutenant," and they were careering over
the Pescadero hills in that identical phaeton,
with Mrs. Bradford and Aunt Nellie in the
places of Queen Tita and her husband. Ob-
livious of the incoming tide, she slept — in dan-
ger after a while of a thorough wetting, if noth-
ing worse, though the under-tow is strong there,

136

THE CALIFORNIAN.

and might have done her deadly harm. At least
so it looked to Bruce Bradford, who arrived at
'the head of the cove just in time to see one
great wave recede from her feet, and another,
before he could reach her, envelop her wholly
in its frothy, cold embrace. With something
very cold, very vice-like, and exceedingly novel
clutching at his heart, he sprung toward the
poor girl and caught her in his arms, with an
exclamation upon his lips, the warmth of which
astonished Mr. Bradford himself, as much as it
could have done any listener he might have had.
If it reached Pauline's ears, it was too much
like a part of her rudely finished dream for her
^o be certain of it, and when she fairly recov-
ered from her bewilderment, and found herself
quite safe, but still encompassed by Mr. Brad-
ford's arm, she gently disengaged herself, say-
ing:

UI think you have saved my life, Mr. Brad-
ford; but I can't thank you now as I should."

He seemed half dazed, but, after a moment's
hesitation, said, absently:

"Yes, yes; but you're very damp, you know,
and in danger of taking cold. We must get
home at once."

This was dreadfully common place for so ro-
mantic a situation. Pauline was quite sure the
"Lieutenant" would have done better, but as
she could only assent to the self-evident truth
of the remark, she said, laughingly :

"Yes, I know what Mr. Mantalini would have
called me, don't you ?" Then, as they drudged
briskly on, she added: "Pray, don't let us
alarm Aunt Nellie ; she will be quite distressed
enough as it is."

Mr. Bradford only bowed assent, and hurried
her on till they reached the rest of the party,
where, after much wringing out of skirts and
many explanations, she was put into the wagon
and enveloped in all the shawls and robes her
escort could beg or borrow. Homeward he was
silent as the Sphinx itself, but watchful as pos-
sible of her comfort; and when he had seen her
to her cottage, and ordered fires, and hot water,
and tea, he took himself off, leaving Pauline to
laugh heartily at his overpowering but dumb
attentions, for to her young and strong phy-
sique the adventure was little more than a tonic,
though she had been a good deal frightened.

Bradford emerged from his cottage soon after,
armed with rod and creel, and betook himself
to the brook-side, where he had been wont to
capture the trout with gratifying success. But
it was soon evident that the fish had little to
fear from him that day, for he whipped the
stream languidly a little, and then gave it up
entirely. Throwing himself under the shade of
a great buckeye tree, whose fragrant blossoms

rained down upon him with every slightest gust,
he gave himself up to a rather stormy reverie,
if one might judge by the number and frequen-
cy of his cigars, and the vigorous and impatient
pulls at his long blonde moustaches.

To confess the truth, he was regularly ap-
palled at the revelation of the morning. He
realized perfectly that if the wave which only
drenched Pauline Brenton had carried her
back with it out into the infinite unknown,
there would have gone with her all the light
from his life and all the strength from his am-
bitions; but so far from his plan of life had
been all thought of love and marriage, except
in the far future, that he could not at first give
any welcome to this new feeling which already
possessed him so wholly. All at once he was
startled to find his destiny inextricably compli-
cated with that of this slip of a girl who might
or might not care for him, but who in either
case could never again, to a nature like his,
be as one of the rest of the world. Separate
and apart forever would be the slight, dainty
figure, the rose-bud face and the sweet eyes,
from which looked forth, he would fain be-
lieve, a brave, faithful, and honest soul. Being
brave, faithful, and honest himself, there could
be but one ending to his reverie, and after more
hours than he realized, he took up his home-
ward way with a definite purpose to woo and
win, if possible; and to do him justice he had
modesty enough to admit a doubt upon the
subject, ,even to himself. Finding upon his
return the subdued bustle attendant upon the
arrival of the afternoon stage, "Any passen-
gers ?" he inquired of Sam Greaves, a bright
youth of sixteen, who attached himself to
Pauline in the role of youthful adorer.

"Yes, sir," said Sam, "lots. All the Day-
tons, three or four men, and the Lawrences.
Know them, sir?"

"Yes," returned Bradford, concisely, some-
what put out to find his premeditated cam-
paign thus interrupted.

"I say, Sam, could you take these wild flow-
ers to Miss Brenton with my compliments, and
ask how she is after her drowning?"

The delighted Sam grasped them valiantly,
and strode away, leaving Bradford to go to his
room.

After dinner that night, a wonderfully lovely

twilight called every one out of doors. Pauline,

who had been in close attendance upon Mrs.

Hasbrook and her inevitable headache, and had

dined in her room, had thrown a light shawl

over her shoulders, and seated herself at the

door of the cottage. Up and down the long

I vista of the porches people were passing and re-

I passing, but she enjoyed her solitude and quiet

A PESCADERO PEBBLE.

after the day's excitement. Two little words
rang in her ears over and over again ; and yet
had she really heard Mr. Bradford say, "My
darling," as he drew her from the water, or was
that, too, only a part of her unfinished dream ?
What a lovely world, she thought; the earth
was all in tune with her happy heart. High
above Lincoln Hill swung the crescent lamp of
a young moon, sending its soft light down
through the Lamarque rose -vines that shaded
the porch, and penciling their delicate foliage
in shadowy lines upon the floor. Up from the
garden at her feet floated faint odors of tea-rose
and mignonette. Beyond the cliff sounded the
low monotone of the surf, while some one in the
half -lit cottage next door was playing in a
dreamy, impromptu fashion, stringing exquis-
ite bits of Strauss and Gounod and Offenbach
upon a thread of dainty modulation, and down
by the gate a night-bird called from an acacia
tree in shrill, sweet tones. It was easy to be-
lieve, at least for to-night, that life might hold
all sorts of sweet possibilities for her.

Just then upon this rose-colored reverie broke
the sound of voices in some open window near.

"Yes," some one was saying, "he is a fine fel-
low, and quite a catch, too, I believe. Miss
Lawrence has done well."

"Is it really an engagement, then?" asked
another voice.

" I believe so. At least, the Lawrences don't
deny it, and Mr. Bradford and his mother were
their guests for some time this spring."'

"Well, it really will be a good thing for Maud
Lawrence. She's certainly a trifle passe, and
might die an 'unappropriated blessing,' you
know. I judge he is wealthy, or she would
have none of him."

"Oh, yes. There is a handsome family prop-
erty in New York and on the Hudson, and the
young man is, besides, a promising lawyer."

And so on — though I doubt if Pauline heard
even so much.

She was very glad, she thought, to have heard
what she did. It was so much better that she
should correct that little mistake of hers before
she had come to believe it true. How fortunate
that she had not given away even the least lit-
tle bit of her heart unasked.

But — with a little shiver — how cold and dark
it had grown. She looked for the moon, but its
light was quenched in a bank of fog. People
were disappearing from the porches, and the
player in Mrs. Dayton's cottage had grown lu-
gubrious. He was playing Chopin now, and
the muffled drums of the "Marche Funebre"
made the heavy air throb with their sorrow.
Just as the exquisitely sad adagio began, Pau-
line rose to go in. She would go to sleep.

It was good sometimes to forget, and — was this
a tear that wet her cheek ?

The days that followed were gay with excur-
sions of all sorts, planned for the pleasure of
the Lawrences and other new-comers. Mr.
Bradford, though inclined to perform his social
duties to them in his own thorough manner,
had no mind that Mrs. Hasbrook or her niece
should suffer any neglect. So they were al-
ways among the first to be consulted, and it was
always evident that some one was looking out
thoughtfully for their comfort. Pauline, under-
standing, as she imagined, the delicacy of feel-
ing that would not allow her little rush-light to
be obscured by the rising of the bright particu-
lar star, accepted such attentions with utter
good feeling, and gave no time to bitter thoughts.
But several refusals were unavoidably given,
owing to Aunt Nellie's ailments, so that she
really saw very little of Miss Lawrence or of
.Mr. Bradford's supposed devotion to her. She
discovered however, through sundry personal
experiences, that the young lady was an adept
in that sort of society stiletto practice which
enables people to stab you skillfully in the back
while presenting a smiling countenance to you
and the rest of the world; though why Miss
Lawrence should honor her especially with
such attentions, Pauline was too blind to see.

Miss Lawrence's younger bother, one of those
unsparing critics we often encounter in the very
heart of our own family circle, said to her one
morning :

"I say, Maud, I can't see why you waste so
much ammunition on that little Miss Brenton.
You're uncommonly free with your shot and
shell when she's around."

"I can't help your blindness," was the ele-
gant retort. " If you can't see that she is throw-
ing herself directly at Bradford, I can; and
that game of unsophisticated innocence is just
the one to catch such a man."

"Well, to be candid, sis, if she really entered
for the race, I believe her chance would be
quite as good as yours. I didn't suppose you
were so far gone, though."

"You know as well as I do how much I am
likely to care for such a strict-laced individual
as he is, but the Bradford property and the
Bradford diamonds are worth winning, and I
mean to do it."

"Then I advise you to be a little more care-
ful. The young gentleman overheard your
pointed observation about school -girl imperti-
nence last night, and was furious. By Jove, I
didn't know blue eyes could blaze so. Be care-
ful, Maud. Ta-ta."

"If I don't win, she shall not," muttered Miss
Maud, tragically.

138

THE CALIFORNIAN.

From which bit of conversation it will be
seen that Mr. Bradford's suspicion of the latent
coarseness in the Lawrence family was not
unfounded. It was during a day in the woods
that more of the same thing came to the sur-
face.

The excusion on this day was to the Falls of
the Butano, and nearly every one was going.
As everybody knows, the wagon road comes to
an untimely end above Clellan's Mill, and it is
customary to make a camp-fire there for those
who do not care to attempt the rather severe
trail that leads to the falls. Around the fire on
this occasion gathered Mrs. Bradford and Mrs.
Hasbrook, with several other elderly ladies, and
Pauline, insisting that they needed some one to
keep the fire and make their tea, decided to stay
with them. The loudly expressed disapproval
of the pedestrian party at the loss of one of their
best walkers had no effect upon her, and she
laughingly persisted in her determination, at
which Mrs. Bradford expressed her gratifica-
tion.

"You are the only one of the young people,
my dear, who has patience with my fern mania
and can tell one from another. Shall we have
a little search for them to-day?"

Pauline was only too happy. To Mrs. Brad-
ford, whose motherhood was the strongest part
of her nature, all young girls represented, in
one way or another, the ever regretted daugh-
ter whom Heaven had denied her ; so, attract-
ed to Pauline from the first, she had shown
her liking generously and freely. This first real
revelation of mother tenderness had been to
the poor child almost too sweet to be borne,
and she found herself yielding more and more
to it as the days went by. So they set off to-
gether very happily, though a little sadly, too,
knowing that not many more of these pleasant
days could come. The ferns were plenty enough,
and tropical in luxuriance. Every uprooted red-
wood tree left a grotto, which was speedily filled
with brake and fern and feathery rush, till it
seemed a home fit for the queen of all the fair-
ies, and every fallen log was arched or hidden
by the dainty growth. Pauline, with arms and
hands full, was still pressing on, eager for more,
when a sharp cry of pain stopped her suddenly,
and she hurried back a little way, to find Mrs.
Bradford lying beside a huge log she had tried
to cross alone.

" I think, my dear," she said, faintly, as Pau-
line bent over her, "that my ankle is sprained.
It is the one that has been hurt before."

That it was badly sprained was sure, for Pau-
line found it already almost impossible to un-
button the boot, How she got the suffering,
but brave, old lady back to the fire she hardly

knew; but it was done, and, leaving her to the
care of the others, 'she at once took the trail to
the falls in search of the son, who would, she
knew, be the mother's best physician. In fact,
she felt sure, and time proved her right, that it
was no trifling accident, and that it was abso-
lutely necessary to get Mrs. Bradford back to
the hotel as soon as possible. Over the ground
she sped, urged by keenest sympathy, climbing
great fallen redwoods, over which she had be-
fore been helped most carefully ; crushing down
the remembrance of various stories she had
heard of wild animals met in these woods, that
'wo^tld rise up to haunt her ; startled, in spite of
herself, at the vague, unfamiliar sounds of forest
life around her, and feeling keenly how alone
she was; catching her dress upon bush and
brier till it was in tatters; crossing the creek
once or twice upon fallen logs at dizzy hights
above the water, from one of which she lost her
hat, and gave it a farewell glance as it sailed
peacefully down the stream; still on, losing
breath as the trail began to ascend, but never
wholly losing courage, till at last the loiterers
of the party turned to see a little figure flying
toward them with disheveled hair blown in
tossing tendrils across the flushed face, and gar-
ments to whose streaming tatters clung twig
and leaf and branch in mad confusion.

Reaching Bruce Bradford, to whose arm Miss
Lawrence clung in interesting helplessness, Pau-
line expended her last remnant of breath in tell-
ing him of the accident to his mother. Then
came that ugly cropping-up of the genuine Law-
rence nature which Bruce had once prophesied
to his mother. Realizing that, with all her dis-
advantages, Pauline had never appeared so ab-
solutely lovable in her life, Maud, half mad with
rage and disappointment, forgot herself entire-
ly, and, clinging still closer to the arm she held,
exclaimed, loud enough for every one to hear :

"Don't go one step, Mr. Bradford. I don't
'believe a word of it. She only wants to get you
back to the camp."

Her words were so childishly angry as to be
laughable, but Bradford was so agitated that he
saw only the spirit that animated them, and,
turning his white face toward her while he dis-
engaged his arm, he said, coldly and clearly :

"Miss Brenton is utterly incapable of such
deception."

Then, turning to the poor little messenger,
who was cruelly hurt by this last and barest
thrust, he rapidly and tenderly seated her upon
a fallen tree, folded round her one of many of-
fered shawls, and, calling her devoted Sammie
Greaves, said to him :

" I want you to stay with this lady till she is
cool and rested, and then bring her carefully

TAXATION IN CALIFORNIA.

139

back to the wagons. Will you do this for me,
"Sam?"

"I'll do it for both of you, sir," said Sam, at
the summit of pride and happiness to be serv-
ing two of his admirations at once.

Then Bruce, with one lingering look into
Pauline's eyes which spoke volumes to her pal-
pitating little heart, and with not a single one
of any kind at Miss Lawrence, was off like the
wind.

Pauline, half overcome with fatigue, excite-
ment, and indignation, was decidedly on the
verge of a good cry, which fact was quite ap-
parent to poor Sam, who was beside himself
with distress. What should he do for her?
What did people do for weeping damsels, he
wondered.

c;Miss Pauline, don't now; please don't cry.
What shall I get for you?" Then, as a happy
thought, struck him: "Just wait a minute; I'll
get the governor's brandy-flask. I'm sure that
will do you good."

Pauline was obliged to politely decline the
brandy, but her hearty laugh at the discomfited
Sam quelled the impending deluge, and all was
well.

I may as well mention here that Miss Law-
rence gave orders to her long-suffering and
much enduring parents to secure seats next
morning for Santa Cruz and Aptos — that her
maiden meditations are still fancy free, and that
she considers Pescadero a very stupid place.

When Mr. Bradford sought an interview with
Mrs. Hasbrook upon a subject of much impor-
tance to himself, she received him with consid-
erable hauteur. It was a coming down, indeed,
from that blue-blooded nobleman of her dreams
to a mere American, no matter how much of a
gentleman he might be, and she felt that for
Pauline's sake she ought to hesitate about en-
tertaining his proposals. Bradford, however,
being entirely unacquainted with his visionary

rival, and not even suspecting that there was
one, being, moreover, armed with a knowledge
of Pauline's acquiescence in his designs, took
such lofty ground of assuming Mrs. Hasbrook's
consent to be a foregone conclusion, that she
finally yielded with what she considered be-
coming dignity, and in the days that followed
— days of tedious seclusion for poor Mrs. Brad-
ford, whose painful limb was the only shadow
in the glowing picture of that summer time —
Aunt Nellie came out gloriously as a gentle
nurse, a genial companion, and, best of all, an
emancipated martyr, for in all those weeks she
forgot to have a sick-headache.

At a merry lunch party given in a hospitable
Oakland home to a number of "graduates"
from a celebrated seminary there was, of course,
a great deal of "Class" gossip. As they lin-
gered over the fruit some one asked:

"Does any one know where Pauline Brenton
has been this summer? I've neither seen nor
heard from her."

"Oh, yes," said another, "she and her aunt
have been at Pescadero all the season. Nina
Lewis saw them there; and our little Pauline is
engaged. What do you think of that?"

Chorus of wonder and delight, finishing with
a unanimous, though ungrammatical, "Who to?"

"A Mr. Bradford, a wealthy gentleman from
the East, and handsome, too, Nina says."

"I wonder if it is a Mr. Bradford we met at
the Lawrences last spring?"

"The same, I think; and, oh, girls ! what do
you think the ring is?"

"A big solitaire, I suppose, since he is so
wealthy."

"My dear," — impressively — "they are rich
enough to do without diamonds, if they choose.
No ! The ring, for Nina saw it, is simply a
pink Pescadero pebble!"

ISABEL HAMMELL RAYMOND.

TAXATION IN CALIFORNIA.

Three questions must present themselves to
the consideration of the honest law-maker while
making up his mind to support or oppose any
bill for the imposition of taxes :

First — Is the measure just and right in prin-
ciple?

Second — Is it practicable?

Third — What will be its effect upon the gen-
eral prosperity of the people ?

Only the first of these questions seems to
have been thought of by the framers of our
present Constitution. Consequently their work,
though intended to compel equal taxation (ex-
cept upon the farmers), has proved impractica-
ble, and has thus far greatly disturbed and
hindered the general prosperity.

Art. XIII, Sec. i, of the new Constitution of
this State, provides that "All property in the

140

THE CALIFORNIA^.

State, not exempt under the laws of the United
States, shall be taxed in proportion to its value."
"The word 'property,' as used in this article and
section, is hereby declared to include moneys,
credits, bonds, stocks, dues, franchises, and all
other matters and things, real, personal, and
mixed, capable of private ownership ; provided,
that growing crops" and government property
"shall be exempt from taxation."

A revenue law, intended to enforce assess-
ments according to the letter of this definition
of property, and yet avoid the double taxation
of things, if not of persons, commanded by the
Constitution, was passed by the last Legisla-
ture. From the new system of assessment thus
inaugurated great results were expected in sub-
jecting to taxation the millionaires and wealthy
corporations who were supposed previously to
have escaped their fair proportion of the public
burdens. Let us see how these expectations
have been realized.

The report of the State Board of Equalization
now in press gives the following assessments
for the whole State for 1880 as compared with
those of 1879:

1879. 1880, Increase.

Real estate $329,213,192 $349,157,295 $19,944,103

Improvements 107,344,299 111,536,922 4,192,623

Personal 101,198,292 149,656,007 48,457,715

Money 9,866,986 24,678,330 14,811,344

Railroads '. 31,174,120 31,174,120

Totals $547,622,769 $666,202,674 $118,579,905

In the assessment for 1880 the folio wing new
items appear :

Solvent credits (supposed to be the
balance not offset by debts due
to residents of this State) $19,984,777

Assessed value of shares of capital
stock in corporations (what a
farce !)* 8,499,329

Franchises (?) 16,347,146

Mortgages, being simply a division
of ownership in the real estate
mortgaged, and adding nothing
to the assessment list 96,811,171

As the total increase of the assessed value is
only 21 }4 per cent., not only are we disappointed

* The market value of stocks and bonds quoted in the Cali-
fornia Bond and Stock Herald on December 17, 1880, was as
follows :

State, city, and county bonds $15,456,612

Bonds of California corporations 6,583,000

Stocks of banking and industrial corpora-
tions 47.737, 722

Railroad stocks 40,406,625

$110,184,459

From the first two items no deduction can be made under the
revenue law. From the last two, deductions are allowable for
property assessed to the corporations themselves. Besides
these, the gross market value of all mining stocks whose works
are beyond the State are assessable, which must amount to
many millions. Yet we are gravely informed that the entire
assessed value of all these stocks is just $8,499,329 !

as to any reduction in the rate of State taxation,
but we are called on to pay 64 cents on the $100,
in stead of 62 cents in 1879-80,55 cents in 1878-9,
and 63 cents in 1877-8.

In the city of San Francisco, whose rich men
and corporations were specially intended to be
reached by the new measures, the result is as
follows :

1880.

Real estate $122,098,868

Improvements 42,931,540

Personal $68,828,264

Money 19,747,623

$165,030,458

88,575-'

Total .............................. $253,606,345

^17.389.336

Real estate and improvements. $166,429, 845
Personal, including money.. 50,959,491

Difference, being increase ............... $36,217,009

Increase in personal property and money
only ..................... ........... 37,616,396

As this increase bears no sort of proportion
to popular anticipation, it is no wonder that the
City and County Assessor has found himself
compelled to file supplementary assessments on
the supposed personal property of about 100
persons and corporations, amounting to $190,-
000,000, even though it may safely be presumed
that no taxes from this assessment will ever
reach the city treasury.

It will be noticed that, so far from any de-
crease in the city rate of taxation consequent on
the expected increase in the assessment of per-
sonal property, we are taxed this year 1.59 per
cent, against 1.27 in 1879-80.

Now, it is perfectly evident that the definition
of property in the new Constitution has entirely
failed to bring out but a very small proportion
of the personal property which has hitherto not
been assessed. Take the money item, for ex-
ample. The State assessment this year shows
$24,678,330, an increase of $14,811,344 over
1879. But the report of the Bank Commission-
ers of December, 1879, showed deposits in banks
throughout the State amounting to $82,133,-
256. 1 5, all of which was surely intended to be as-
sessed by the revenue law. That is, $57,454,-
926 escaped taxation in this item alone ; or, in
other words, the assessors have found only $i
out of $3 which a public document informed
them was liable to assessment.

It may be interesting to note that the sum
insured on improvements and visible personal
property in San Francisco, of course exclusive
of money, debts, and franchises, was, in 1879,
$172,175,238, which sum represented about half
the market value of those descriptions of prop-

TAXATION IN CALIFORNIA.

141

erty, for not more than half, if so much, is in-
sured. But the assessors have found only :

Improvements $42,931,590

Personal property (not money). . . 68,828,264

$111,759,854

That is, the assessments on real, tangible
personal property (for none other is insurable),
and on buildings of all kinds, are taken at less
than one -third of the insurable value thereof.
Where are the remaining two-thirds ? Where,
too, are all the "credits, bonds, stocks, dues, fran-
chises, and all other matters and things capa-
ble of private ownership?"

It is evident from these figures that the tri-
fling increase of 21 per cent, in the State as-
sessment roll, accompanied, as it has been, by
an increase instead of a reduction in the rate of
tax levied, both in State and city, deprives the
advocates of the new Constitution of any argu-
ment in favor of its clauses on taxation, as de-
rived from experience. Nothing at all commen-
surate with the expectation has been added to
the assessment roll ; there has been no deduc-
tion, but an increase of taxation. All the fuss
and discussion about these new principles have,
therefore, developed no good, but only the fol-
lowing evils :

A division of interests between mortgageors
and mortgagees in the assessments of real es-
tate, settled by an enormous increase of labor
and expense to the State, but adding nothing
at all to the assessment roll.

An attempted confiscation of 20 to 30 per
cent, of the revenue heretofore derived from
money lent on mortgage, which fails because
there is now established in the market a dis-
crimination against loans on mortgage, except
at a rate of interest higher than on other securi-
ties by the estimated amount of the tax.

A complete exemption of all taxes on farm
produce, in the farmer's hands, indirectly ef-
fected. For, as the growing crops are exempt-
ed by the Constitution, which also (Art. XIII,
Sec. 8) fixes the first Monday in March as the
time to which all assessments must relate, of
course the farmer, whose crops are then just
sown, is not assessed; and by the next first
Monday in March the crop has been har-
vested, sold, and moved off, so that he es-
capes assessment altogether, except on the
very small proportion ($5,000,000 this year)
that then may remain on hand. Doubtless,
$80,000,000* worth of farm produce, including
what is consumed in this and the adjoining

* A careful estimate of the crop yield of the State, as re-
ported in the Surveyor-General's report for 1879, less six coun-
ties not reported, gives a value of $66,708,097. This year the
yield has been much greater.

States, have thus escaped taxation this year al-
together.

Another neat little arrangement for the farm-
er's benefit, at the expense of the city, is found
in the clause (Sec. 2, Art. XIII), "Cultivated
and uncultivated land of the same quality, and
similarly situated, shall be assessed a"t the same
value." Of course, under this clause cultivated
land must practically be assessed at the value
of uncultivated, for as "value" is defined in the
revenue law, to mean "the amount at which
the property would be taken in payment of a
just debt, due from a solvent debtor," no Asses-
sor would be justified in rating $10 land at $50.
Consequently, under the Constitution the $50
land must come down to the rating of the $10
land. Thus we have in the report of the State
Board of Equalization for this year $184,046,-
046 given as the value of 26,116,080 acres of
land, being all the real estate, "other than city
lots" — a value not exceeding an average of $7.04
per acre, or an amount probably no greater than
the value of three years' produce of all kinds.*

Again, we have an insoluble problem pre-
sented to the assessors, under clause 3640 in
the Revenue Act. To avoid double taxation,
it is provided "that the assessable value of
each share of stock shall be ascertained by
taking from the market value of the entire
capital stock the value of all property assessed
to the corporation, and dividing the remainder
by the entire number of shares into which its
capital stock is divided." Now, this may work
well enough when the stock is owned by an in-
dividual. But suppose two such corporations
each to own a portion of the other's stock, which
often happens, how is this problem to be solved?
In fact, the assessors have not attempted to
find, much less to figure, the values of stocks
in private hands ; and so the amount of stocks
reached by them is a mere trifle compared with
their actual amount.

Again, the clause allowing the reduction from
assets of debts due only "to bona fide residents
of this State" (Sec. i, Art. XIII), if executed
strictly, would work a crying injustice to im-
porters whose debts are principally owing be-
yond the State. Why should the jobber be

* The report of the State Board of Equalization for 1880
puts the area of cultivated land at 5,313,580 acres. This, at
$30 average value, which ought to be low, considering that it
includes all the vineyards, orange orchards, etc., worth $500
to $1,000 per acre, amounts to $159,407,400. Now, it is safe
to assume the value of the remaining 20,802,580 acres, to aver-
age $5 per acre, for certainly no land is offered for sale at less
than $5. This gives $104,012,900 ; or,

An aggregate of $263,420,300

Less actual assessment 184,046,046

Value unassessed $ 79,374,254

Add value of crops 80,000,000

Total unassessed Lo farmers $159,374,254

142

THE CALIFORNIAN.

taxed less than the importer, by the deduction
of his debts due the importer, while the latter
must pay not only on the debts due to him by
the jobber, but on those due by him beyond the
State?

Thus much in criticism of the taxation clauses
in the new Constitution, which, however, might
be extended to other points. But there is an-
other vice, common to both the new and the
old constitutions, as well as to the plan of taxa-
tion, adopted by most, if not all, of the Ameri-
can States. A tax upon principal, however
uniform, is necessarily a tax of varying and un-
equal amount on the revenue derived from the
use of that principal. It is often frightfully ex-
cessive when the income, on which we all rely
to pay taxes with, is considered. Thus, when
the revenue is 6 per cent, per annum (now the
current rate for safe investments) a tax of 2 per
cent, confiscates 33 per cent, of it. But a tax
of 2 per cent, on land valued at $10 per acre,
and yielding a crop worth $10, is a tax of only
2 per cent, on the farmer's income. English-
men pay an income tax of 6 pence in the
pound, or just 2^ per cent, on incomes. Is
it likely they will continue to send funds here
for investment where the tax is 20 per cent.,
30 per cent., or more, on the income of their
money ?

Therefore, it is useless to talk of establishing
extensive manufactures in California while the
present laws are in force. For, though but a
single tax were imposed on property of all
kinds, so long as that tax is on capital and
not on profits, and is anything like 2 per cent,
per annum, so long will such tax consume so
large a part of the profits as to render such in-
vestments inexpedient. And so long as the
Constitution requires double taxation of prop-
erty, by requiring separate assessments of each
interest in it, so long will the fear of its enforce-
ment doubly prevent the use of money in the
principal direction required by the economical
wants of the State.

It is now perfectly evident that the attempt
made in our Constitution and revenue law to
bring out and place upon the assessment lists
all the items of personal property that appear
as such on the private books of the citizens
has failed, as such attempts have always failed
everywhere, and must always fail in the future.
It is in fact impracticable. Our limited experi-
ence is precisely that of all the civilized world.
The report of David A. Wells, Edwin Dodge,
and George W. Cuyler, commissioners appoint-
ed by the Governor of New York, in 1871, to
revise the laws of that State for the assessment
and collection of taxes, shows (pp. 40, 41) that
the assessment of personal property in that

State for 1869-70 did not discover but $i out
of every $4.50 that was known by public docu-
ments to exist in that State. Theodore C. Peters,
one of the State Assessors, made a report to the
New York Legislature, in 1864, containing the
following statement: "Of the taxable property
of the State not one-fifth of the personal prop-
erty is now reached. While the real estate is
estimated at eleven -twentieths of its value,
personal is at less than four -twentieths." "A
further conclusion is arrived at that the real
and personal property are of equal value in
fact."

The figures attained by the assessments of
other States, of cities and counties therein,
show a wonderful inequality in the amount of
personal property listed for taxation, and, of
course, prove that only the wildest uncertainty,
and consequent gross inequality, is inherent in
the system of attempting to assess it at all.
Thus the assessment for 1869-70 showed per-
sonal property per caput of the population :

New York $ 99. 13

Massachusetts 34S'*9

Ohio 189 . 67

California, 1880-1 207.00

California, 1878-9 138.83

"Fully recognizing facts," says Mr. Wells
(on the fifty -first page of the above quoted re-
port), "the recognition being due in most in-
stances to years of tentative experience, all the
leading civilized and commercial nations on the
face of the globe, with the single exception of
the United States, have abandoned all attempts
to levy a direct tax on personal property in the
possession of individuals, as something entirely
beyond the reach of any power of constitutional
law, or, indeed, of any power, save that possi-
bly of an absolute despotism, to effect with
any degree of perfectness or equality; while
the opinion of the civilized world generally is
further agreed that all attempts to practically
enforce laws of this character are alike prejudi-
cial to the morals and material development of
a State." " Much of the property which it may
be desirable, and is made obligatory on the
assessors to assess, is invisible and incorporeal,
easy of transfer and concealment, not admitting
of valuation by comparison with any common
standard, and the determination of the situs of
which constitutes one of the oldest and most
contraverted questions of law. When once,
moreover, personal property is valued and en-
rolled for assessment, the assessment list is
necessarily subject to losses, which never oc-
cur in respect to real property. Business firms
assessed on their merchandise, machinery, or
capital, fail, dissolve, and break up, and the
taxes are practically abandoned. Household-

TAXATION IN CALIFORNIA.

ers break up, sell their personal effects, leave
the place of their assessed residence, and the
tax levied on them is lost. Deaths break up
households, and the property ceases to exist
as assessed."*

It is evident from the consideration of the
facts thus far quoted, which might be multi-
plied ad infinitiim, as well as from the experi-
ence of our State during thirty years, that as-
sessments upon personal property, define it
as we will, are unequal, arbitrary, uncertain,
attended with an inquisition into private af-
fairs which no free people will submit to, and
are to the last degree demoralizing by their re-
liance on oaths whose falsity is stimulated by
a reward for lying and punishment for telling
the truth. Consequently, all such assessments
are impracticable in their very nature. Is it
not time that our law-makers should recognize
the fact that the laws of human nature are
stronger than any form of government, and
that the tide of economical necessity will rise
high enough, in spite of all statutory brush-
fences, to roll in resistless volume whitherso-
ever the laws of nature propel it?

Now, the confusion in the public mind on the
subject of taxation in this State is due to the
ambiguity of the language of the Constitution,
which leaves it uncertain whether persons or
things are intended to be taxed. In theory,
nothing is more just than the maxim, "Every
individual should be taxed in, proportion to
what he is worth? This means, if it means any-
thing, that each individual should pay taxes on
the difference in his favor, if any, between his
assets and his liabilities. Had the Constitution
stated this maxim instead of what it does — viz.,
"All property in the State, not exempt under
the laws of the United States, shall be taxed in
proportion to its value," followed by a defini-
tion of property in its vulgar sense — then the
duty of framing a statute to enforce the man-
date would have been clear and easily per-
formed. Nay, more, the question of double tax-
ation would not have arisen, for the double tax-
ation commanded in the Constitution is si prop-
erty, and not of persons. All the different rights
in the same thing, owned by different persons,
or represented by different evidences (as stock,
bonds, debts, etc.), are intended to be taxed to
those different persons, and its provisions, as
they stand, were it not for the clause, "all prop-
erty shall be taxed in proportion to its value,"

* Thus the San Francisco Auditor's report for 1878-9 (p. 591)
shows:

Taxes on real estate roll $4,264,722.78

Delinquent only 242.20

Taxes on personal property roll 916,763.32

Delinquent 308,966.78

Or more than 30 per cent.

could be easily enforced by simply requiring
each person to file his sworn statement of assets
and liabilities with the assessor on the first
Monday in March.

But would the people of California endure
such an inquisition as this? Would any civil-
ized people be willing to file their sworn state-
ments of the condition of their private affairs in
a public office? Does not all the world know
that all attempts to base an assessment upon
information extorted from unwilling witnesses
by means of the oath results only in public de-
moralization? The once clear moral atmos-
phere of our country has now become thick
with the murky clouds of almost universal per-
jury. At almost every point of contact between
the Government and the individual the oath is
interposed, like packing in machinery, as the
only means of abating the necessary friction.
Excessive use has long ago worn out this pack-
ing. Is there now one in one hundred who
feels his conscience burdened by perjury if
thereby he may reap a pecuniary advantage at
the expense of the Government or a corpora-
tion ? Is it not time that we realized the posi-
tive evil of so many unnecessary temptations to
this crime, especially since the oath is no longer
any guarantee of truth? Is it worth while to
expect taxes from even a candidate for the
Presidency when his own oath is our only reli-
ance in ascertaining the amount?

Bearing now in mind that the prevailing idea
is that taxes should be laid in proportion to
personal ability to pay, while the Constitution
is so worded as to make property the basis of
assessment, the ambiguity consists in the adop-
tion of the ordinary definition of the word "prop-
erty," instead of defining it with reference to
the extraordinary sense in which it must be used
in levying taxes. Says Judge McKinstry, in
People vs. Hibernia Bank (51 Cal.): "The
sovereign power of the people, in employing
the prerogative of taxation, regards not the
claims of individuals on individuals, but deals
with the aggregate wealth of all. That which
is supposed to be unlimited is here limited by
an inexorable law (of nature) which Parlia-
ments cannot set aside, for it is only to the
actual wealth that Governments can resort,
and, that exhausted, they have no other prop-
erty resource. This is as certain as that a paper
promise to pay money is not money. It is
property in possession or enjoyment, and not
merely in right, which must ultimately pay every
tax."

Says Judge Wallace, in the same case : "Mere
credits are a false quantity in ascertaining the
sum of wealth which is subject to taxation as
property, and, in so far as that sum is attempt-

144

THE CALIFORNIAN.

ed to be increased by the addition of those cred-
its, property taxation based thereon is not only
merely fanciful, but necessarily an additional
tax on a portion of the property already once
taxed. Suppose the entire tax-rolls exhibited
nothing but such indebtedness. Taxation un-
der such circumstances would, of course, be
wholly fanciful, as having no actual basis for its
exercise,"

If, therefore, property, and not persons, are
to be taxed, it becomes logically necessary to
define "property," for the purposes of taxation,
to be things, not rights in things nor representa-
tives of things, and the claim of the Government
for taxes is a claim in rem, resulting from its
right of eminent domain, and not in personam.

It is evident, on a moment's reflection, that
the aggregate property of the State must be the
aggregate value of the visible, tangible things,
or, in other words, the actual realized wealth,
owned no matter by whom, but situated within
its limits — that is, the aggregate value of lands,
buildings, animals, products, vehicles, ships, fur-
niture, railroads, rolling stock, machinery, goods,
etc. It matters not to the State who owns these
things — whether there be one or a dozen titles
to them ; whether they are paid for or not ; or
whether the owners reside beyond its jurisdic-
tion or not. The thing itself'^ what it is, or
should be, liable to taxation, under a system of
property tax, and it should be taxed but once.

Now, the relation of debtor and creditor be-
tween the tax -payers has nothing whatever to
do with the aggregate value of their property ;
for, as by each individual's private books, what
he owes is exactly balanced by the credit extend-
ed to him on his creditors' books, so the aggre-
gate of all debts must exactly balance all cred-
its, and therefore they neutralize each other.
The plus quantities equal the minus quantities,
so that their difference is nothing. For exam-
ple : Suppose ten men each own a house and
lot worth $10,000. The aggregate value is
$100,000. Now let each man borrow $5,000 of
his neighbor. The aggregate debt thus created
is $50,000. But a corresponding credit of $50,-
ooo is also created. Will our granger friends
claim that the ten men are now worth any more
than they were before? Equals from equals
and nothing remains ; so that, whether there be
debts between the parties or not, the original
$100,000 is the aggregated net value of the
whole property for taxation or for any other
purpose.

So as to stocks and bonds. Suppose a corpo-
ration to have $1,000,000 capital, and its stock to
be quoted at 50 cents. It has real and personal
property assessed at say $250,000. Deducting
this from the market value of the stock, the lat-

ter is commanded to be assessed at 25 cents.
So far there is no double taxation. But sup-
pose the corporation has issued $250,000 of
bonds, and these are assessed as required by
law. The amount on which the corporation is
assessed is

On real and personal property, assess-
ed to the corporation $250,000

On stock, assessed to stock-holders.. 250,000
On bonds, assessed to bond-holders. . 250,000

Total $750,000

or 50 per cent, more than the whole value of
the real and personal property in existence. Is
not this double taxation of things, if not of per-
sons?

Now, the assessment of tangible, visible things
is all that is within the powers of the average
assessor (who is not gifted with second sight);
for all actual, material property shows for itself,
and a claim in rem for taxes compels whoever
owns it to pay the tax or lose his property by
tax sale. If it were possible to force every cit-
izen to exhibit his exact accounts to the assessors
on a given day, showing the things owned by
him, the result would be precisely the same as if
the outside assessment of things only were
made at the same value without noticing rights
in things. Why, then, not confine the labors of
the assessors to the listing of things only, in-
stead of requiring from them impossibilities, at
the cost of equality and truth, and of the de-
moralization caused by the present system? Let
the Constitution command double taxation of
property as it will, so great is the opposition of
the people to it that the Legislature and courts
will not enforce it, the assessors dare not im-
pose it, and the citizens will not pay it. The
only results will be what they already are, viz.,
the destruction of that confidence without which
capital withdraws or declines investment, leav-
ing labor unemployed and our great resources
undeveloped; the discouragement of immigra-
tion ; and contempt of the supreme law of the
land, thus crumbling into sand that cement of
respect for law which alone holds the masonry
of free institutions together.

The problem to be now solved is how to get
our State out of the inconsistency in which it
has been involved by the ambiguity of the lan-
guage of the Constitution.

There are several ways in which this can be
done, though all of them require amendment
of the Constitution.

(i.) If the traditional public opinion of our
State is yet too strongly set in favor of taxing
both real and personal property to justify any
attempt to change it, then the question of
double taxation can be wholly eliminated by

TAXATION IN CALIFORNIA.

substituting for the present definition of "prop-
erty" the following:

"Property for the purposes of taxation is
hereby defined to mean things— -not rights in
things, nor representatives of things. The
claim of the State and muncipal govern-
ments for taxes is a lien in rem upon the
things assessed. No evidence of debt shall
be subject to taxation."

And in order to reach the agricultural prod-
uce of the State, which has always escaped
taxation, another amendment should be made,
fixing a separate assessment thereof in October
or November of each year. Of course, all the
clauses relating to the taxation of mortgages,
debts, credits, etc., would have to come out of
Art. XIII, and these changes would leave the
whole matter just where it was left, in 1877, by
the decision in People vs. Hibernia Bank, ex-
cept that the farmers would be obliged to pay
their share of taxes on personal property.

(2.) A second solution of the problem would
be effected by striking out of the Constitution
the words "all property in the State shall be
taxed in proportion to its value" and substitute
therefor the words "each person (natural or
artificial) in the State shall be taxed in pro-
portion to his wealth," leaving the definition
of property as it stands, and compelling the
citizens and corporations to make a sworn
statement of the actual condition of their af-
fairs on assessment day.

(3.) Another mode of solving the problem
is to substitute for the "all property" clause
the following: "Each person (natural or artifi-
cial) in the State shall be taxed in proportion
to his income," striking out the definition of
property and other inconsistent clauses alto-
gether. Then make it mandatory on the Leg-
islature to enact a statute providing that all
taxation shall be itpon income only, in the same
manner as has been done in Great Britain dur-
ing fifty years, or more. This is theoretically
the fairest mode of taxation which statecraft
has yet devised.

But the people of the State will never submit
to the inquisition into private affairs required
by both the last two suggestions. They will,
therefore, not be advocated by any one.

(4.) But if public opinion should be so far
instructed by the failure of our present system,
as well as by the failure of taxes on personal
property everywhere, as to be equal to the task
of leading all the other American States on this
vexed subject, I respectfully suggest, as follows:

(a.) That all taxes on personal property and
all personal taxes be abolished, except an in-
come tax on foreign corporations having no in-
vestments in the State, and excepting also mu-

nicipal license taxes on those occupations only
that tend to public demoralization.

(b.) That the only property taxed shall be
lands, to be assessed at their uncultivated value,
and buildings of all kinds, including railroads
and all other structures fixed to the soil, except
machinery, the works of the miner, the fences,
ditches, and irrigating works of the farmer, and
the dams, flumes, and machinery of the manu-
facturer.

The debates we have had on this subject in
the daily press and on the stump have been
exhaustive on the topic of double taxation, but
have failed to notice either the ambiguity in
the Constitution between property and per-
sonal taxation, or the remarkably shrewd man-
ner in which our political masters in the coun-
try have contrived to shirk their share of taxes
at the expense of the city. There is another
vital principle which has been similarly ig-
nored. I refer to the law of the diffusion of
taxes. This law is thus stated by Mr. Wells,
in his Rational Principles of Taxation :

" All taxation ultimately and necessarily falls on con-
sumption; and the burden of every man, -which no effort
will enable him directly to avoid, -will be in the exact
proportion, or ratio, which his consumption bears to the
aggregate consumption of the taxing district of which he
is a -member."

This is best illustrated by the working of the
tariff of the United States. Every one can see
at a glance that if a gallon of wine costs a dol-
lar to import, and must then pay a duty of 40
cents, whoever consumes that wine must pay
at least $1.40 for it, exclusive of the dealer's
profit. The duty is in fact a part of the cost of
the article, and if not refunded to the merchant
who advances it, would result in speedily break-
ing up his business. So with the duty on wool.
It is sold at a price which includes the duty to
the manufacturer, whose selling price of cloth
of course includes this as well as all other items
of expense in producing the cloth. The tailor
having in his turn advanced the tax, charges
it with all other items that go to make up the
cost of a suit of clothes, and the consumer of
the clothes repays the last advance without
recourse to any one else. Evidently, the more
wine and clothes consumed by any individual,
the more tax he pays, whether he knows it or
not; or whether he ever saw the inside of a
custom house or not.

This law of diffusion of taxes is as much a
law of nature as that by which a snowball
grows with each successive turn. Every busi-
ness successful enough to give a living must
enable the man who pursues it to get back all
his costs, including taxes of whatever nature,

146

THE CALIFORNIAN.

besides the profit on which he lives. This
proposition is self-evident.

It is also self-evident that whether the as-
sessment list be large or small, the govern-
ment must be supported, and will raise the
sum necessary to its support, indifferently by
a small tax on a large assessment, or by a large
tax on a small assessment ; by a tax on one in-
terest or on all interests.

So that nothing is gained as to the amount
of money raised, whether the assessment in-
cludes "everything capable of private owner-
ship," or only one thing. Neither is anything
gained by the people as to the amount of tax
they pay, whether each man pays his tax di-
rectly to the Government, or whether one set
of men advance the whole tax and the rest re-
fund it. Therefore, if it be possible to select
some one species of property whose nature is
such that it cannot be concealed or removed,
that a claim in rem against it would be always
good, whose value can be ascertained by the
assessors without the necessity of tempting the
owner to take a false oath, whose use is a neces-
sity to all mankind and must be paid for by all
who use it, then shall we have found the solu-
tion of nearly all the difficulties that surround
this most intricate question.

There are only two such species of property
— land and buildings — including railroads and
other structures fixed to the soil.

The taxes levied on rented land are refunded
in the rent, which again is recouped by the
produce of the soil which everybody consumes.
If not rented, but cultivated by the owner, the
produce directly refunds the tax with the other
costs of production. If not used for any pur-
pose, it ought to be taxed anyhow, for the hold-
ing of land on speculation has been long recog-
nized as an evil in our State, and present sound
legislation tends to its discouragement. Again,
taxes on buildings are replaced by the rent.
The tenant of a dwelling is the consumer who
ultimately pays the tax, as does the owner who
inhabits his own house. But the premises let
for business uses carry the tax in the rent, which
is an item in the expense of the business, and
added to the cost of the product of the business.
The customers of such tenants, if themselves
merchants or shopmen, repeat the process with
their patrons, until the tax has distributed itself
infinitesimally among all who live on the land,
or inhabit buildings, or consume any articles
whatever. In this view, the baby in his cradle
is a tax -payer, in the proportion that his con-
sumption bears to that of the whole community.

In this view, the railroad people, who con-
sume many millions per annum in merely oper-
ating their lines, to say nothing of building new

ones, would still be the largest tax-payers in the
State, though they paid no direct tax to the
treasury; and we may depend upon it that all
of the enormous taxation now attempted to be
assessed upon railroads and railroad owners
will be added to their fares and freights and
thus exacted from the people, despite all the
merely nominal regulations of fares and freights
likely to be exerted by our boasted jnstitution
of Railroad Commissioners.*

The idea of confining taxation to land only is
not new. It has been advocated by economists
during many years. More than a century ago,
Adam Smith wrote :t "The quantity and value
of the land which any man possesses can never
be a secret, and can always be ascertained with
great exactness. But the whole amount of the
capital stock which he possesses is almost al-
ways a secret, and can scarce ever be ascer-
tained with tolerable exactness. It is liable to
almost continual variations An inquisi-
tion into every man's private circumstances
. . . . would be a source of such continual and
endless vexation as no people could support.
Land is a subject which cannot be removed,
whereas stock easily may. The proprietor of
land is necessarily a citizen of the country in
which his estate lies. The proprietor of stock
is properly a citizen of the world, and is not
necessarily attached to any particular country.
He would be apt to abandon a country in which
he was exposed to a vexatious inquisition in
order to be assessed to a burdensome tax, and
would remove his stock to some other country
where he could either carry on his business or
enjoy his fortune more at his ease." ( How pro-
phetic of what is going on in California to-day ! )
"By removing his stock he would put an end to
all the industry which it had maintained in the
country which he left," etc.

If, now, it be admitted that taxation on land
alone would yield all necessary revenue, cannot
be evaded, is more easily and cheaply assessed,
is more equal, and diffuses itself thoroughly
among the community by the laws of trade ;
that it would tend to discourage land specula-
tion, and to encourage the most profitable use
of the land; and if, on the other hand, the
farmers can be made to see that the taxes on
business they were smart enough to shirk for
themselves are as irksome to all other branches
of industry as to their own ; that all industries

The railroads from which no deduction of

the mortgages is allowed are assessed at $31,174,120

Stocks and bonds arbitrarily assessed
against three of the resident owners in
the supplementary assessment of San
Francisco, $19,000,000 each 57,000,000

$88,174,120

t Wealth of Nations, 672.

TAXATION IN CALIFORNIA.

are alike valuable to the community in propor-
tion to their relative magnitude ; that, above all,
manufactures are useful to the farmer, as cre-
ating on the spot a market for raw materials,
and largely increasing local consumption of all
the products of the soil, and therefore should
be preeminently encouraged;* if they can be
made to see that the relation between city and
country is that of the belly to the members, and
that their present attitude of oppression toward
the city is slow poison to themselves — then why
will they not be willing that the State should
adopt the measure proposed?

Let us see how it would work :

The Controller's estimate of the expenses of
the State for the fiscal years 1881-83 is $6,560,-
246, or $3,280,123 per annum. To meet this
a tax of 64 cents has been levied on the total
assessment of all kinds of property, amounting
to $666,202,674. If the personal property por-
tion of this assessment were all "good," as in
the nature of things it cannot be, then it is evi-
dent that a tax of 50 cents would pay all the
State expenses. The State Board of Equaliza-
tion have, however, for this reason, as required
by Sec. 3696 of the Political Code, levied a tax
of 64 cents, or 14 cents more than would be
needed if there were to be no delinquent list.

Now, the items of real estate and improve-
ments amount to $460,694,217, out of the $666,-
202,674. A tax of 71 X cents on this lesser sum
would, therefore, pay the expenses of the State ;
that is, the additional tax of only 7X cents put
on real estate and improvements would be all
the difference resulting to the debit side of the
proposed change, so far as State taxes are con-
cerned.

In the city, the tax this year, on a total as-
sessment of $253,606,345, is 1.57 per cent., or
$3,981,620, for city purposes. If this were con-
fined to real estate and improvements, the rate
would be advanced to 2.41. Add State tax, and
the owners of real estate and improvements
would be taxed this year 3.12% per cent.

What, then, would be the results to the tax-
payer?

( i.) The abolition of personal taxes, licenses,
etc., would of course be in exact proportion to
the increase of the tax on land and buildings in
both city and country, so that in the aggregate
the tax-payers would pay no more taxes than
they now do. Furthermore, the aggregate of
the tax would be reduced by the amount now
wasted in the cost of assessing and collecting
the revenue from so many sources. It would
often be the case, too, that each tax-payer, who

* Vermont exempts wholly from taxation all manufactories
for five years from their inception.

is now assessed on both real and personal
property, would find the relief on the one tax
balance the increase on the other.

(2.) Rents would be advanced to cover the
tax, or more. At the least, all leases would
thereafter oblige the tenant to pay the specific
amount of the tax in addition to the old rate of
rent, and by the process of diffusion already
explained the landlord would be recouped and
the consumer pay the tax. Nevertheless, real
estate would be unfavorably affected for a while.
But by and by —

(3.) All other taxes being removed, there be-
ing no longer any apprehension of interference
of the tax-collector with business in any way or
manner, capital would flow into the city, new
enterprises would be inaugurated, population
would increase, rents would go up, and real es-
tate would recover from its temporary depres-
sion and soon reach much higher prices than
before.

(4.) As new enterprises, especially manufact-
ures, were developed, the accumulation of wealth
would soon flow out into the country, where the
demand for new and more remunerative prod-
ucts than wheat would gradually cause a change
in the present destructive agricultural policy
of our State. Small farms of irrigated land
would produce $50 to $500 per acre from crops
that can best be raised on a small scale, and
for which there is now no demand, yet for whose
production our soil and climate are particular-
ly designed by nature. This paper is already
too long to more than allude to what might be
done with 'jute, hemp, ramie, sugar, cotton, to-
bacco, silk, madder, teasels, grapes, olives, and
the whole list of fruits that can now be dried
and preserved so as to become permanent arti-
cles of commerce. No taxes on money, on
debts, mortgages, on business, stocks, shipping,
banks, or corporations as such, capital would
be attracted, and invested in a greater variety
of channels than ever. Immigration would fol-
low, especially to those regions heretofore mo-
nopolized by land speculators, whose burden of
taxation would make them anxious to let go at
a great reduction of former prices. I look for-
ward with hope and confidence to the dawning
of the manufacturing and industrial day, now
apparently sure to succeed our long night of
mere speculation. I hope to live long enough
to see the State dotted over with manufactories,
its lands generally irrigated, cut up into small
holdings, and furnishing support to thousands
of substantial resident yeomanry, where now
there are but tens, the bulk of whom are em-
ployed only a few months in the year. How is
all this to be accomplished when our vicious
system of taxation strangles in the birth all ef-

148

THE CALIFORNIAN.

fort toward improvement? How can we thrive
under a cast-iron Constitution, molded in the
heat of class antagonisms, intended to affect
present public interests as they appeared to the
inflamed eyes of men laboring under mere tem-
porary excitement, and formulated in contempt
alike of the universal experience of mankind
in the past, and of the changes in our require-
ments that will of course develop themselves
in the future?

I have said enough thus far to enlist the at-
tention of thoughtful, earnest, and patriotic
men, enough to stimulate study of this most
complicated of all the questions of statecraft,
and enough to excite the attacks of that un-
fortunately large class in every new community

who exhaust themselves in the effort to prove
in their own persons that "a little knowledge is
a dangerous thing." Much more might be said
in anticipation of the objections which are sure
to be made to any proposition to change the
new Constitution by those whose pride of con-
sistency would lead them to sink the State
rather than acknowledge an error under any
circumstances. It is hoped that this paper may
prove the entering wedge of a discussion on the
merits of this most important subject, and that
such debate may be conducted with that free-
dom from passion and prejudice which is es-
sential to the development of "the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

C, T. HOPKINS.

NOTE. — Since the above was put in type, the report of the State Board of Equalization has been issued. It is
full of suggestive facts in accord with the tenor of the above article. It shows that the maladministration of the
business of assessment, especially in the country, has reduced the whole thing almost to the level of a scandal !
After showing (p. 29) that, deducting the assessments of franchises, solvent debts, and shares of capital stock from
the total value of personal property, " the assessed value of the personal property this year is only $1,716,718 over
the assessment of 1878, and is $6,749,996 less than that of 1877." It says, "We feel sure that many millions of
dollars' worth escape assessment. We believe that if it were possible to secure for once a full and correct assess-
ment of the State, the assessment roll would aggregate $1,000,000,000." The report gives ample evidence of
the utter incapacity, if not deliberate fraud, of a large portion of the county assessors — all at the expense of the
city; e. g,, the average valuation of 1,389,550 acres of land in Kern County at $1.48 per acre, and 900,454 acres
(376,930 less than in 1879) in San Diego County at 59 cents ! But San Francisco's farming lands, 6,862 acres,
though mostly sand-dunes or rough hills, are quoted at $168.32 per acre. The report deserves careful criticism by
all classes of the community, and it is hoped the press will give it careful and discriminating attention. — C. T. H.

CALIFORNIAN CRADLE SONG.

There are cumulus clouds on these purple hills,

The water runs in forgotten rills,
Sedate nemophilas' eyes of blue

Demurely smile on the world anew,
For the raindrops cease their murmur of peace,
And the fowls creep out,

And the children shout,
And an oriole sings

Where a poppy springs,
And the field is green,

And the sky serene,

And the baby wonders, and cannot guess
Why the world is clad in such loveliness.

O wise young mother whose notes prolong

The dreamful tones of your tranquil song,
O trustful babe at your mother's breast

Remembering dimly a land more blest,
Do you think it strange that the hill -sides change?
That a flower renews

Its maidenly hues?
That an oriole sings

And a poppy springs?
I recall the grace

Of a lifted face,

And I see it again in this babe, and guess
Why the world is renewed in such loveliness. CHAS. H. PHELPS.

A STUDY OF WALT WHITMAN.

149

A STUDY OF WALT WHITMAN.

After making all allowances and concessions
as to the bad taste and the coarse indecencies
of much of Walt Whitman's earlier writing, it
still remains true that he is the most remarka-
ble literary phenomenon of the age. A great
deal of worthless rubbish has clustered about
the pure magnetic ore of his thought, but there
is noble metal at the center. That it is no
child's play to analyze and criticise his writings,
opening up as they do the profoundest ques-
tions in poetry, politics, and religion, no one
who has read his works will need to be told. It
is puzzling to know where to take hold of him,
or how. He cannot be classified. He must
rather be understood and interpreted by sym-
pathetic intuition. Whitman has been greatly
under estimated and greatly over estimated.
This happens because of his duality. He is
mixed of iron and gold. He is like those stat-
ues in the shops of Athens of which Socrates
speaks : outwardly they were ugly and uncouth
sileni, but within were the images of the ever-
lasting gods. Whitman sometimes seems the
spokesman of the low-bred rabble, uttering only
bluster, coarse fustian, and beastly indecencies
of language, but on the very next page, per-
haps, his strain rises high and sweet and clear,
and you tremble with awe at the manifestation
of superhuman power, recognizing for the mo-
ment in this rude poet of the new world the
peer of Homer, of ^Eschylus, of Angelo. Swin-
burne puts the case very neatly in a single para-
graph of a pamphlet entitled Under the Micro-
scope. He says :

"Whitman is not one of the everlasting models, but
as an original and individual poet it is at his best hardly
possible to overrate him; as an informing and reforming
element it is absolutely impossible."

This is true. As a reforming element in po-
etry, political ethics, and religious philosophy,
his writings are of incalculable importance. In
poetry his chants are vast Angelo-cartoons of
new world life and landscape, to be filled in by
future American poets ; in religious philosophy
he is typical and prophetic, and has struck
with mighty hands chords that are to resound
for ages.

But, apart from his magnificent originality as
an interpreter of nature, and apart from the
unparalleled grandeur of his poems of immor-
tality and death, he is absolutely unique in one

Vol. III.— 10.

thing : he is the first great poet of democracy.
One hundred years ago modern democracy be-
gan to be, and Whitman is thus far the first
tribune of the people who has bravely dared to
take his seat in the senate of letters with the lit-
erary patricians of the world. In this, again, it
is hardly possible to overrate his influence.
This it is which distinguishes him from all
others, and makes it certain that he will be
read for centuries during the transition of hu-
manity from feudalism to democracy. The
other features of his writings, though deeply
original, are yet paralleled and surpassed in
the works of Shakspere, Goethe, and Emerson.
But these writers have not been the spokesmen
of the masses. The masses have never had a
great poet until Whitman, unless, perhaps, we
except sweet Robbie Burns, whose exquisite
lyrics should not be compared with Whitman's
vast, tumultous hymns of the universe. Burns
is great as a daisy or a rose is great ; Whitman
as the cloud, the lightning, the tempest. It is
foolish to deny to Whitman this title of repre-
sentative poet of democracy, as a recent critic
of him has done in an article in THE CALIFOR-
NIAN. Thoreau said everything when he said,
"He is democracy." We are told by the critic
that he is no true poet of the people because
(think of it !) he has actually read all the great
master -pieces of literature, and talks about
Osiris, Brahma, and Hercules, and many other
things of which "the people" are not supposed
to know anything. The mistake of the critic is
in thinking that the people are so ignorant in
this age of universal reading as not to under-
stand allusions to the commonplaces of litera-
ture. The language, too, of Whitman, is that
of the people — almost wholly Saxon. Take the
song of the broad-ax, for example, in Chants
Democratic, and the description of the Euro-
pean headsman in the same poem, Almost
every word is Saxon, and every word, with one
exception, is either monosyllabic or dissyllabic.
It seems as if no one with eyes and a brain
back of them could read Whitman's prose writ-
ings, the Democratic Vistas and Memoranda
during the War, and not see that he is de-
mocracy incarnated.

The very grossness, the swagger, the bad
grammar, and the billingsgate which so fre-
quently deface his early writing, instantly stamp
him as of the people, as belonging to the class

THE CALIFORNIAN.

ordinarily spoken of as uncultured. He himself
is avowedly very bitter against conventional
"culture." It has been very justly said of him
that he sometimes affects his rdle. There is too
much of this, I admit. He is often too self-con-
scious.

But this too frequent self- consciousness does
not by any means make all his work affectation,
and his carriage always, or often, that of an atti-
tudinizer or mere poser. This is only occa-
sional* No, he is really and truly representa-
tive of the people. As he himself says,

"I will accept nothing which all cannot have their
counterpart of on the same terms."

And in another place,

"I advance from the people in their own spirit."

Before Whitman self-government seemed
problematical. Its ablest defenders had their
despondent hours, and often in the bottom of
their hearts were skeptical of the outcome.
Those most enthusiastic for it were the igno-
rant, who saw not its terrible dangers, and
learned theorizers, writers upon political sci-
ence.

But here in America arises a man who, by
the native grandeur of his soul and his vast
prophetic insight and vorstellungskraft^ dis-
cerns the magnificent promise of democracy, is
filled with glowing faith in its possibilities, and
loves it with the deep and yearning love of a
mother for her child. He pours forth his burn-
ing thoughts in words — he writes the great epic
of democracy, "the strong and haughty psalm
of the Republic ; " he calls it Leaves of Grass.
The very title is democratic — suggests equal-
ity. His enthusiasm is catching, it is irresisti-
ble. Your skepticism gradually disappears as
you read, and with deep delight you find your-
self possessed of the national pride and self-re-
spect which an unquestioning patriotism gives.
Your debt of gratitude is very great. You love
the man who has given you a country. You
reverence the great heart that beats with such

* I must again quote from Swinburne's Under the Micro-
scope (p. 47 ): "What comes forth out of the abundance of his
[ Whitman's ] heart rises at once from that high heart to the
lips on which its thoughts take fire, and the music which rolls
from them rings true as fine gold and perfect. What comes
forth by the dictation of doctrinal theory serves only to twist
aside his hand and make the written words run foolishly awry.
What he says is well said when he speaks as of himself, and be-
cause he cannot choose but speak, whether he speak of a small
bird's loss or of a great man's death, of a nation rising for bat-
tle or a child going forth in the morning. What he says is
not well said when lie speaks not as though he must, but as
though he ought — a sthough it behooved one who would be the
poet of American democracy to do this thing or to do that
thing if the duties f that office were to be properly fulfilled,
the tenets of that e ligion worthily delivered."

boundless sympathy and tender love for all men.
You feel safe in the shelter of such mighty faith.
Henceforth you are strong, self-reliant. The
influence of your new faith is felt in every act
and thought of your life. You are a new man
or a new woman.

Whitman's idea of a republic is superb be-
yond comparison. Plato's dream is but a dream,
but Whitman's ideal sketch is based on reality,
on experiment. It is but a prophetic forecast-
ing of the certain future, a filling in of the out-
lines already thrown upon the screen of the fut-
ure by actually realized events. Leaves of Grass
is destined to be a text -book for the scores of
great democracies into which the Indo-Euro-
pean family is fast organizing itself in various
parts of the globe; for it is the only book in
the world which states in the plainest speech,
and in a picturesque, concrete form (and there-
fore a popular form), the laws and principles,
the ways and means, by which alone self-gov-
ernment can be successful. The principles laid
down are as broad and true and unerring as the
fundamental laws of nature. They will be as
true thousands of years hence as they are to-
day. In his republic Whitman will have great
women, able-bodied women, an'd equality of the
sexes. There shall be a new friendship — the
love of man for man, comradeship, a manly af-
fection purer than the love of the sexes, making
invincible the nation, revolutionizing society.
There are to be great poets, great musicians,
great orators, vast halls of industry, completest
freedom, and, above all, profound religious be-
lief, without which all will be failure. The pict-
ure of this vast continental republic of the new
world is wrought out to its minutest detail in
the poet's mind. All on fire at the magnificence
of the vision, he bursts forth into that wild, ec-
static century -shout, the apostrophe in Chants
Democratic, which, for wild intensity of passion,
seems to me unequaled in all literature :

"O mater! O fils !

O brood continental !

O flowers of the prairies !

O space boundless ! O hum of mighty products ! "

" O days by-gone ! Enthusiasts ! Antecedents !
O vast preparations for these States ! O years ! "

" O haughtiest growth of time ! O free and ecstatic !"

" O yon hastening light !

O so amazing and so broad, up there resplendent, dart-
ing and burning !

O prophetic ! O vision staggered with weight of light,
with pouring glories ! "

"O my soul ! O lips becoming tremulous, powerless !
O centuries, centuries yet ahead ! "

A STUDY OF WALT WHITMAN.

There are passages in Nahum, Habakkuk,
and Isaiah which are even finer than this in
splendor of imagery, but none which excel it
in intensity. Take for example the following
passage from Isaiah (v, 26-30), and see how
quietly it reads in comparison with Whitman,
and yet notice that in exalted majesty of im-
agery and in stately magnificence of movement
it excels him :

"He lifteth up a banner for the nations afar off,

He whistleth for them from the ends of the earth, •

And behold they haste and come swiftly;

None among them is weary, and none stumbleth;

None slumbereth, and none sleepeth;

The girdle of their loins is not loosed,

Nor the latchet of their shoes broken;

Their arrows are sharp,

And all their bows bent;

The hoofs of their horses are like flint,

And their wheels li'ke a whirlwind."

In regard to the communistic tendencies of
Whitman, I confess that to my taste his politi-
cal creed is too democratic — too all -leveling.
In his ideal American republic one is distressed
by the monotonous uniformity of men and in-
stitutions. All such attempts (conscious or un-
conscious) to level distinctions arise from fail-
ure to keep steadily in view the great evolu-
tionary law of nature — the law of continual and
universal differentiation. Whitman says, in his
prose work, Democratic Vistas:

"Long enough have the People been listening to
poems in which common Humanity, deferential, bends
low, acknowledging superiors. But America listens to
no such poems."

To this I reply, that when any people be-
comes so mad as not to acknowledge its natu-
ral leaders and superiors, then we shall have
anarchy and not democracy. But we must not
do Whitman injustice. No one believes more
unwaveringly in great men than he; and if
generally he seems to expect that all may be
raised to one uniform level of attainment, he
yet firmly insists upon reverence for the native
superiority of mind ; as, e. g., in the immortal
words in which he describes the greatest city
(Chants Democratic, ii, 6-15):

"What do you think endures —

A teeming manufacturing State,

Or hotels of granite and iron?

Away ! These are not to be cherished for themselves.

The show passes; all does well enough, of course.

All does very well till one flash of defiance.

The greatest city is that which has the greatest man

or woman.
If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city

in the whole world."

"Where behavior is the finest of the fine arts;
Where the men and women think lightly of the laws;

Where the populace rise at once against the never-
ending audacity of elected persons;
Where fierce men and women pour forth, as the sea
to the whistle of death pours its sweeping and
unript waves;

Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands,
Where the city^of the cleanliness of the sexes stands,
Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands,
Where the city of the best bodied mothers stands,
There the greatest city stands."

"All waits or goes by default, till a strong being ap-
pears.

A strong being is the proof of the race and of the
ability of the universe.

When he or she appears, materials are overawed;

The dispute on the soul stops."

The great defect of Whitman's ideal of a
democracy, as it is of his own nature, is that
it is too coarse and rude — it does not provide
for the polish and fine finishing which Nature
shows through all her works. His ideal is
a magnificent skeleton of a democracy, and
herein seems absolutely perfect. But we still
await the great poet who shall combine the
strength of Whitman with the high-bred courte-
sy and elegance of Emerson or Goethe, and
thus be himself a living incarnation of the Per-
fect Democracy. Whitman betrays the defect
of his nature in a paragraph on his own style.
He says : .

"Let others finish specimens — I never finish speci-
mens. I shower them by exhaustless laws, as nature
does, fresh and modern continually."

But nature does finish all her specimens most
exquisitely. And so must the greatest poet.
So did Shakspere; and so have the ten or
eleven other great master-poets of the world.

A word about the Calamus of Whitman. The
billowing, up -welling love and yearning affec-
tion of Whitman's great heart — the love which
led him to give those long years of self-sacrific-
ing ministration to the wounded and dying in
the hospitals of the war, this manly love, this
love of comrades which he announces and sings
in his Calamus — seems to the reader to be some-
thing entirely novel. Such is the force of the
powerful flavor of originality that he gives to
every subject he touches. This type of manly
affection he symbolizes by the calamus, or sweet-
flag. It is a beautiful and fit symbol. Like
the grass, it too is a democratic symbol. It
grows in fascicles of three, four, and five blades,
which cling together for support. It is found
in vast masses, standing shoulder to shoulder
with its fellows, stout, pliant, and inexpugnable,
confronting all weathers unmoved, rejoicing in
the sunshine, and unharmed by the storm. The
delicate fragrance it gives forth when wounded,
and the bitter-sweet flavor of its root, are also

152

THE CALIFORNIAN.

aptly typical of the nature of friendship. Whit-
man is the first great modern writer upon de-
mocracy who has insisted so strenuously upon
loving comradeship as the indispensable condi-
tion of its success. The very essence of Chris-
tianity is contained in the principle. Jesus was
the world's first great democrat.

Whitman's thoughts upon this subject are
summed up in the following words from Demo-
cratic Vistas:

"It is to the development, identification, and gen-
eral prevalence of fervid comradeship (the adhesive
love, at least rivaling the amative love hitherto pos-
sessing imaginative literature, if not going beyond it)
that I look for the counter-balance and offset of ma-
terialistic and vulgar American democracy, and for the
spiritualization thereof. .... I say democracy infers
such loving comradeship as its most inevitable twin or
counterpart, without which it will be incomplete, in vain,
and incapable of perpetuating itself."

This great love fuses and interfuses all Whit-
man's writings, as it has all his actions. It is
this glowing love and mighty faith, born of per-
fect physical health and Greek strength and
saneness, that flame out in his description of
a visit to a dying man :

"I seize the descending man, and raise him with re-
sistless will.

0 despairer, here is my neck.

By God! you shall not go down. Hang your whole
weight upon me ;

1 dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up;
Every room of the house do I fill with an armed

force —

Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.
Sleep! I and they keep guard all night."

And in the fine description of the wounded
slave, where he says :

"Agonies are one of my changes of garments;
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels,
I myself become the wounded person."

And in the pathetic hymn, en titled "The Singer
in the Prison:"

"A soul, confined by bars and bands,
Cries, Help! Oh, help! and wrings her hands;
Blinded her eyes, bleeding her breast,
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.

O sight of shame, and fain, and dole!

O fearful thought — a convict soul!

"It was not I that sinn'd the sin,
The ruthless body dragged me in;
Though long I strove courageously,
The body was- too much for me.

O life! no life, but bitter dole!

O burning, beaten, baffled soul!

"(Dear prisoned soul, bear up a space
For soon or late the certain grace;

To set thee free, and bear thee home
The heavenly pardoner, Death, shall come.

Convict no more — nor shame, nor dole !

Depart, a God-enfranchised soul!)"

— Passage to India.

As well here as anywhere else I may speak
of the coarse indecencies of language that have
made Whitman's poems tabooed in all parlors
and in all social circles. There is not a parti-
cle of excuse for these beastly blurts of lan-
guage. I doubt whether society, as a whole,
will be ready for even a refined treatment of the
relations of the sexes for millenniums hence, and
a coarse and bald treatment of such themes
as Whitman's, notwithstanding the essentially
pure and moral tone given it by the large purity
of the poet's own nature, is a most unfortunate
anachronism, and a most lamentable mistake
in any writing. Such a thing' never will be tol-
erated and never ought to be tolerated. We
have enough and too much of this thing in Chau-
cer and Shakspere, in Rabelais and Swift. The
progress of the universe is toward refinement,
toward greater elegance, greater finish of details.
The universal soul, through a million human
hands, is giving finish and delicate grace to the
plastic material in its great workshop of time.
There is danger in refinement, it is true. Re-
finement has rotted nations. Whitman raises
the warning cry for us when he says :

' ' Fear grace ; fear delicatesse ;
Fear the mellow-sweet, the sucking of honey-juice ;
Beware the advancing mortal ripening of nature ;
Beware what precedes the decay of the ruggedness of
States and men." — Chants Democratic.

But then he goes too far the other way, and
we are obliged to shun his coarseness and rude-
ness, and hold our noses while we read some of
his paragraphs.

Let it be distinctly understood, however, that
all that is objectionable in this respect is found
only in Leaves of Grass, the work of his earlier
years. His later poems are wholly free from
the beastly language of parts of Leaves of Grass.
He somewhere confesses that he himself has
had misgivings about this early work. His
mind seems to have gradually worked itself
free from the fury of its first essays. The toss
and turbulence of the stream in its descent from
its mountain home — the foam, the roar, the
deafening thunder -tumult of the breakers, the
snarl of the rapids — have now given place to the
slow roll of the calm, majestic flood of the
plains.

A word may be said here upon the egoism
and egotism of our poet. As to his egoism,
we must accept that if we accept his poems at
all, for they are avowedly based upon "the

A STUDY OF WALT WHITMAN.

great pride of man in himself," upon the indi-
vidual personality. It is this which consti-
tutes one of the most remarkable elements
of their originality. In these poems the writer
often speaks in the first person typically only.
It is the soul, the cosmos, that speaks. It is
God in self-conscious humanity asserting him-
self, proving his divinity. As to Whitman's
egotism, it is disagreeably great, to be sure. It
is often offensive. Its prominence shows lack
of high breeding. But much can be endured in
a man who possesses grandeur of soul and is
never mean or contemptible. And, besides, his
egotism is no greater than that of every man
conscious of great powers, only in his case it is
not concealed.* Then there are many pas-
sages which show how modest is his estimate of
his printed works. E. g., these :

"Poets to come !. . . .

What is the little I have done except to arouse you ?. . .
I but write one or two indicative words for the future ;
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back
in the darkness."

•" All I have done I would cheerfully give to be trod
under foot, if it might only be the soil of superior
poems."

' ' I am the teacher of athletes.

He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own

proves the width of my own ;
He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy

the teacher."

In one of the most pathetic of his great organ-
voiced sea-chants he says :

"1, too, but signify at the utmost a little washed-up

drift,

A few sands and dead leaves to gather —
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and

drift."

He calls the "Two Rivulets"

' ' These ripples, passing surges, streams of death and
life,"

And elsewhere speaks of them in this modest
and exquisite manner :

" Or from that Sea of Time,

Spray-blown by the wind — a double windrow-drift of

weeds and shells ;
(O little shells, so curious, convolute, so limpid, cold,

and voiceless !

Yet will you not, to the tympans of temples held,
Murmurs and echoes still bring up — eternity's music,

faint and far,
Wafted inland, sent from Atlantica's rim — strains for

the Soul of the Prairies,
Whispered reverberations, chords for the ear of the

West, joyously sounding

* Compare the opening words of Thoreau's Walden upon the
use of the pronoun /.

Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable ! )
Infinitesimals out of my life and many a life
{ For not my life and years alone I give — all, all I give ; )
These thoughts and songs — waifs from the deep — here

cast up high and dry,
Washed on America's shores."

It remains now to speak of Whitman first as
nature-poet, and second as religious poet ; and
these portions shall be preceded by some re-
marks on his style. We here come upon the
inner secret of the man, that which is most dif-
ficult to analyze or describe, for the style is
the man, and the man in this case is perfectly
unique. The distinguishing characteristic of
his style (as everybody who knows anything
about him is aware) is its titanic strength.
This is the secret of the thrill of pleasure given
by the first four or five sections of the poem, or
"Proto-leaf," of the Leaves of Grass, I never
tire of reading this. I read it each time with
fresh admiration, and with inward exclama-
tions of wonder and delight. It is a magnifi-
cent shout, the joyous exultation of perfect
strength. You do not until several readings
see the full grandeur and beauty of these para-
graphs. But they really reveal all the opulence
of the poet's nature. In them, as in all Whit-
man's writings, the all -tyrannous fascination
springs out of the subtile and evasive spirit,
which breathes from the words rather than
from the word -vehicle itself. His poems are
palimpsests; the priceless classic thought lies
beneath the written words. It is the very gen-
ius of the new world that speaks in the "Proto-
leaf." Here at last is a man who confronts
the grandeur of this vast new hemisphere with
an answering grandeur of soul. Nay, more — it
seems not to be the man that speaks at all ; he
seems to be but the seolian harp, or the dark-
ened camera through which the storms, the
glowing tumultuous skies, the encrimsoned for-
ests, the broad blue lakes, the rivers, winds,
mountains, and meadows of the new world, di-
rectly express their fresh living nature in min-
iature articulation or outline. I said the chief
characteristic of the thought is its strength.
This strength seems something superhuman.
These first rude chants burst from his deep
chest as from its iron throat the wild hoarse
pantings of the locomotive. You tremble and
shudder with a new and indefinable delight — a
few sentences fill the mind to repletion. You
could dwell for days upon single pages. It is
the powerful magnetic thrill produced by great
oratory that you feel. But it is -a strength so
rude that it tears and rends your very life at
first. The cosmic emotion, the continual strain
upon the imagination, caused by the irregular,
elliptical style of expression, the incoherence of

154

THE CALIFORNIAN.

the thought — all these fatigue one terribly at
first reading, much as one would be sympa-
thetically fatigued at seeing the writhings and
hearing the ravings of a frenzied religious fa-
natic, or a possessed person. The man resem-
bles Danton or Mirabeau more than he does
Homer or Dante, and we see that his poetry,
as respects its form, is but rude barbaric poetry
— the crude and uncrushed ore of melodious
verse. Shakspere, and Shakspere alone, equals
Whitman in strength; but Shakspere has united
elegance and perfect melody with his super-
human power, and herein becomes, of course,
superior to Whitman, as he is superior in every
respect in his own field of human life.

Whitman is a New Yorker, "a Manhattan-
ese," and the feverish, convulsive, and fluctu-
ating life of that seething metropolis of the new
world, its daring speculation, its splendid enter-
prise, and its haughty pride, are well represented
and typified in its great poet. He does not rep-
resent its cultured class (which is really a very
small portion of it), but he has absorbed the
spirit of the whole place, the genius loci, the
local tone. The wild and rugged energy, and
the crudity, of his poems accurately express
the features of New York City, and the whole
country outside of the boundaries of New Eng-
land.

The second great feature of his style is its
amplitude and naked simplicity. He sketches
in large and bold outlines, with the hand of an
Angelo. The figures upon his huge cartoons
are as naked as those of Flaxman, and as mus-
cular as those of Blake. His landscapes are
Turneresque. There is not a particle of Flem-
ish painting in his work. He speaks with "the
large utterance of the early gods." In this mat-
ter of diction he differs from Keats, from Homer,
from Chaucer, in one respect only — their pict-
ures are tableaux vivants; they are sculpt-
uresque. The tranquil mind contemplates calm
scenes, embalmed in the deep and far serenity
of the past ; but Whitman's pages, while equally
Greek, have yet the quality of unrest. There
is always the idea of infinity, of immensity.
The mind is always on the stretch. The con-
ditions of our modern life make this inevitable.
We have discovered the universe, and all our
thought has a cosmical side. The serenity and
limitation demanded by true art are hard to at-
tain or retain in this age. The prose style of
Whitman is most astounding. It is Greek-
Gothic, an Olympian plain strewed with the
wrecks of classic temples, a luxuriant tropical
jungle, or banyan grove, tangled with blossoms,
fruit, and undergrowth of vines and shrubs. It
is worse than Carlyle's, worse than Jean Paul's,
worse than Milton's prose, in complexity and

involution. It is splendid and exasperating,
and, withal, indescribable.

As illustrating the quality of largeness and
simplicity of which I have spoken, it may be
interesting to many to be told that the hand-
writing of Whitman is very large, and bold, and
naked, the marks of punctuation being very few.

A vexata qucestio in literature at the present
day is the problem of what constitutes poetry.
What is its province, and what are its essen-
tial and necessary methods of expressing it-
self? We need not here inquire into the nat-
ure and province of poetry, but the nature of
Whitman's writings and theories make it a
necessary and interesting task to glance at the
laws of poetic form or expression. Whitman, as
is well known, maintains that the greatest and
truest poetry cannot be cribbed and cramped by
rhyme and arbitrary meters, but that all that
is necessary is a certain rhythmic flow of lan-
guage. Now, all admit that poetry must have
melody of some sort. Lewes, in his Life of
Goethe, speaks thus: "Song is to speech what
poetry is to prose : it expresses a different men-
tal condition. Impassioned prose approaches
poetry in the rhythmic impulses of its move-
ments ( as with the Arabs, Hebrews, and most
semi-civilized nations); but prose never is po-
etry." Lewes then illustrates by placing a sen-
tence from Goethe's prose version of Iphigenie
side by side with the same thought in the poetic
version. The prose is "Unniitz seyn, ist todt
seyn ; " the poetical form is,

"Ein unniitz Leben ist ein friiher Tod."

Schiller, too, somewhere speaks of how close-
ly substance and form are connected in poetry.
Indeed, so long as the processes of all nature
are rhythmic, from the lapping of the waves of
the sea to the orbital movements of the heavenly
bodies, so long will no sane man be found who
will deny that the emotional thought of man
must express itself rhythmically. Now, tried
by this test, a great deal of Whitman's writing
is true poetry, and that of the very highest kind ;
for, as Rossetti says, much of his poetry "has
a powerful, majestic, rhythmic sense." There
is nothing new in Whitman's theory. The po-
etry of all barbarous and semi-civilized peoples
consists of rhythmical chants. Oriental poetry
is all of this character. African poetry is of this
character, too. Take, e. g., the following chant
improvised by Stanley's men in a moment of
deep emotion, when they were approaching the
Victoria Nyanza Lake after a long and toil-
some march :

" Sing, O friends, sing — the journey is ended ;
Sing aloud, O friends, sing to the great Nyanza ;

A STUDY OF WALT WHITMAN.

Sing all, sing loud, O friends — sing to the great sea ;
Give your last look to the lands behind, and then turn
to the sea."

All that Whitman has done is to recall the
Occident to the fact that sublime poetry can
be expressed in other than fixed and arbitrary
metrical forms. He has shown to be true what
the poet Freiligrath suggests; /'. <?., that "the
age has so much and such serious matter to
say that the old vessels no longer suffice for
the new contents." It is a good service to break
up any cramping and too tyrannous custom.
Undoubtedly, a great poet of this age, with a
powerful sense of melody, may translate into
such rhythmical forms as he will or can the
mighty and struggling thoughts which the re-
discovered universe is awakening in the mind,
Whitman has chosen the irregular rhythmical
chant. So far so good. But now note this : it
is only occasionally that he rises to the melody
of perfect rhythm. The greater part of what he
calls poetry is nothing in the world but pure
prose. The pieces of poetry are magnificent
exceptions — nuggets of gold in vast masses of
quartz. And just in proportion to the splendor
of the expression, and to the wild intensity of
passion with which the thought is uttered, do
the words approach more nearly to regular
metrical forms. This is seen in the song of the
broad -ax, in the apostrophes to the night and
the sea, in "President Lincoln's Burial Hymn,"
in the little stanza,

' ' Long, long, long has the grass been growing,
Long and long has the rain been falling,
Long has the globe been rolling round ; "

and, finally, in the poem on the "Convict Soul,"
quoted above, which is his only rhymed poem,
and one of the most pleasing. From this we
may gather that, while the conditions of mod-
ern life make it permissible, and perhaps im-
perative, that Whitman, dealing as he does
with the vastest and most solemn themes, should
make use of the majestic and stately chant ; yet
that, tried by his own test, he has been only
partially successful. In respect of melody, he
falls far behind Shakspere, Homer, Milton, and
Dante. He has not the music in him that the
greater poets always have. He has a good
deal of it, and might have had more if he had
cultivated his talent. But, perhaps dimly con-
scious of the defect of his nature in this respect,
and being compelled to lead a stormy and busy
life, which afforded little leisure for the cultiva-
tion of the sense of melody, he made a virtue
of necessity, expressed his thought generally in
crude prose form, and succeeded in convincing
himself that his defect was a virtue. He has
been very headstrong in maintaining his the-

ory, but his own poetry would confute him, if
the great poetry of all time did not do so.
"The arts," says Taine, "require idle, delicate
minds," long periods of leisure, and opportunity
for reverie. If Whitman had had more of this
leisure, we should probably have had more
metrical and more symmetrical poems, and less
foolish talk about the obsoleteness of rhyme
and the iamb, spondee, trochee, dactyl, and
anapaest. But let us thank heaven that he had
the courage to express himself in any way, for
his thought is of great value in and of itself.
Before leaving this part of the subject, I must
quote a few lines from Whitman, and also from
C. P. Cranch. The subject treated by each is
nearly the same. Whitman gives us pure prose,
and Cranch pure poetry :

WHITMAN.

" But now the chorus I hear, and am elated

A. tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, with

glad notes of day-break, I hear ;
A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops

of immense waves ;
A transparent base, shuddering lusciously under and

through the universe ;
The triumphant tutti — the funeral waitings, with sweet

flutes and violins — all these I fill myself with.
I hear not the volumes of sound merely. I am moved

by the exquisite meanings.

I listen to the different voices, winding in and out, striv-
ing, contending with fiery vehemence to excel

each other in emotion.

— Music Always Around Me.

CRANCH.

"Had I, instead of unsonorous words,

The skill that moves in airy melodies,
And modulations of entrancing chords

Through mystic mazes of all harmonies, ....
I would unloose the soul beneath the wings •

Of every instrument ;
I would enlist the deep-complaining strings

Of doubt and discontent ;
The low, sad mutterings and entangled dreams

Of viols and bassoons,
Groping for light athwart the clouds and streams

That drown the laboring moons ;
The tone of crude half-truth ; the good within,
The mysteries of evil and of sin ;
The trumpet-cries of anger and despair ;

The mournful marches of the muffled drums ;
The bird-like flute-notes leaping into air —

Ere the great human, heavenly music comes,
Emerging from the dark with bursts of song
And hope and victory, delayed too long."

— Satan, a Libretto.

The whole of the overture from which the
above is taken is one of the most perfect pieces
of melody and poetry in the English language.
The idea is a rich and happy one, the move-
ment majestic, sustained, and by its complex
winding finely suggestive of the music of the

156

THE CALIFORNIA**.

orchestra, which the poet imagines at his com-
mand. But it must also be evident that much
of the pleasure we take in it comes from the
delicate metrical measurements. This is the
very thing the absence of which makes Whit-
man's piece nothing but plain prose.

The catalogues of Whitman, as they have
been called, are hardly defensible even as
prose. They read like agricultural reports or
tax lists. Prof. Edward Dowden, however, says
a good word for them, and there is certainly
truth in what he says. He thinks that by them
"the impression of multitude, of variety, of
equality is produced, as, perhaps, it could be in
no other way." And Mrs. Anne Gilchrist thinks
they will please the people, for they will see in
them their own crafts chronicled. But this is no
excuse for their dreary prosaic nature. They are
wearisome in the extreme. Swinburne speaks
what should be said when he remarks, "It is
one thing to sing the song of all trades, and
quite another thing to tumble down the names
of all possible crafts and implements in one un-
sorted heap. To sing the song of all countries
is not simply to fling out on the page at ran-
dom in one howling mass the titles of all divi-
sions of the earth, and so leave them." One
may fitly close this discussion of the poetical
abilities of Whitman, in which we have been
obliged to deny him some of the qualities of the
great poet, by citing his remarkable words on
the qualifications of the American poet. They
contain crushing satire upon many of our poets.
If he is defective in some of the^qualities of a
great poet, none the less are they, even the best
of them:

' ' Who are you, indeed, who would talk or sing in
America ?

"Are you faithful to things?

Are you very strong? Are you of the whole people?
Are you done with reviews and""criticisms of life, ani-
mating to life itself?

"What is this you bring my America?

Is it a mere tale, a rhyme, a prettiness?

Does it answer universal needs? Will it improve man-
ners?

Can your performance face the open fields and the
sea -side?

Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, nobility,
meanness — to appear again in my ^strength,
gait, face?

"The swarms of the reflectors and the polite pass,

and leave ashes.
The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferred, till his

country absorbs him as affectionately as he has

absorbed it."

Whitman the nature -poet! The poetry of
earth is ceasing never. It needs but the man

to feel, see, and interpret it. One of the many
great services which Whitman has rendered
America is that of revealing to us our poetical
resources. He has traveled all over the conti-
nent, and knows it from Alpha to Omega. He
is a poet of the open air — is objective, Greek,
scientific, cosmic. He sees the poetry of the
commonest things — the sea, the night, touch,
the locomotive, the negro, the atmosphere:

"The atmos

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